


The Family Way

by Ellis_Hendricks



Series: Completely Backwards [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Outgrowing 211B, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlock wants more kids, Wedding on the way, all the gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2018-12-15 17:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 107,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: Sequel to 'Under One Roof' - I am truly awful at titles, so please don't be put off!At the end of the previous fic, Sherlock and Molly are engaged, baby William is 6-months old, and Sherlock has managed to persuade Molly that there's no time like the present to expand the family. This fic follows almost immediately on from that, and will probably be the usual mix of family drama, farce, angst and fluff - with an impending wedding thrown in there, too.As ever, feedback is like creative fuel and always gratefully received. Hope you enjoy :-)





	1. Chapter 1

“I think that was the one,” Sherlock declared, his breath a little ragged, before collapsing back on the pillow.

Molly giggled, rolling her eyes probably more to herself than at him, making way so that he could snuggle into her side, his head coming to rest on her chest.

“Oh, really?” she said, humouring him. This was starting to sound familiar now. “And what makes you so sure?”

“Felt decisive,” he replied, his voice rumbling across her skin. “Resolute.”

Again, Molly snorted with laughter; if they were going to talk about how it had felt, she would have worked her way through several other more adulatory adjectives before arriving on those particular words.

“So, you, um, told the indecisive sperm to stay where they are and make way for the ones with more focus and ambition?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he murmured, bringing his hand up to rest it flat across her stomach. Suddenly, he lifted his head to look up at her.

“Wait, are you sure you don’t want to adopt a more elevated posture? Allow gravity to provide a natural advantage?”

Molly snorted.

“No!” she told him, raking her fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “I’m very happy where I am, thank you.”

“Hm,” he replied. “Me, too. Although, you should at least lie still for around thirty minutes anyway. You just have to watch a video of salmon to know how problematic and self-defeating it is to try to swim upstream.”

He said it with a completely straight face. Dear god. 

Molly tilted his chin up towards her and planted a kiss on lips.

“Ten minutes, Sherlock.”

“Twenty?”

“I will lie here for  _fifteen_  minutes,” she said, fixing his gaze with hers. “One, because I have no interest in starting the week with a urinary tract infection, and two, because Mrs Hudson will be back with William in less than half an hour and I’d rather it didn’t look so blatant that we’ve just had sex.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to snort this time.

“What else would she think we’d be doing with a child-free hour?”

Molly frowned, feeling herself blush inexplicably. Mrs Hudson was incredibly straightforward and completely un-prudish, but it still felt to Molly like she’d be laying her sex life bare (so to speak) to her nan.

“Um, cleaning, maybe?” she offered, not buying it for a second herself (although god knows the flat could use it).

Sherlock scooted himself up the bed, making a sound that sounded a lot like scoffing. 

“Would you rather have been cleaning, Molly?”

Molly jabbed a finger lightly in his side, refusing to even dignify that with an answer. Sherlock leaned in, planting a kiss on her neck and nibbling his way northwards, across her jaw, and homing in on the spot just beneath her ear that he knew bloody well always got a reaction.  

“Anyway,” he mumbled. “I believe Hudders’ last words to me were ‘You two have fun’ and something about knocking loudly when she gets back. I believe she was under no illusion.”

Oh well. Perhaps she could ‘conveniently’ be in the shower when their landlady arrived back with their son.

Molly turned her head and dragged Sherlock’s mouth up to hers, capturing it in a brief but intense kiss. When they broke apart, he barely moved, instead staring directly at her, heavy-lidded.

“More please,” he said, his voice a low whisper.

Molly raised her eyebrows.

“I thought I was supposed to be lying stock-still for the next fifteen minutes?”

Sherlock cocked his head.

“I can try and work with that.”

She lightly shoved him again, prompting one of Sherlock’s wonderful, crinkly smiles. Everyone insisted that William had her smile, but smiles were made with more than the mouth alone, and William definitely had his father’s eyes. Watch out, world. 

“Go,” she told him. “If I’m doing this, then you’re getting me a glass of water and the path journal I left in the living room.”

This was her fairly hopeless attempt to keep up to speed with her field of expertise while spending her days with a seven-month old baby, who seemed to be capable of functioning without regular naps. She had started to write a proposal for a paper, but whenever she theoretically had a moment to develop it – or the opportunity to browse a professional journal – she would inevitably glaze over within about five minutes. Who  _were_  these women who spent their maternity leave learning a new language or studying for an MBA?

“And could you at least do a quick tidy of the living room?” she asked. “Just…it would make me feel better.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh at this, as he hauled himself into a sitting position.

“Do I have to put clothes on first?”

“Do you want Mrs Hudson to suffer heart failure?”

Sherlock snorted.

“Nothing she hasn’t seen before, Molly,” he replied.

“Well, let’s not chance it, hm?” Molly grinned, snaking her hand across the bed to rest on his thigh. “Besides, I think she’d like to be around to make a fuss of baby number two.”

At that, Sherlock’s face broke into a grin of his own.

“- whenever he or she comes along,” she added.

Almost as soon as the words left her lips, they were followed by a surprised yelp, caused by the sensation of having not one but two pillows quite forcibly wedged underneath her hips by a consulting detective with a very determined look on his face.

“Hey, what the-” Molly protested, somewhat too late, she realised, given that Sherlock was now sitting back on his haunches to admire his handy work.

“Subtle change in gradient,” he said by way of a response. “It can’t hurt.”

“Maybe not, but it isn’t that comfortable, Sherlock,” she fired back. “You try lying here for ten minutes with your pelvis pointing at the light fitting.”

“ _Fifteen_  minutes. And I  _would_  try it if I thought it would have any bearing on our chances of conceiving.”

Molly felt her expression soften a little. This really meant a lot to him. It meant a lot to her, too, but for Sherlock, adding another number to their family seemed to have turned into a mini crusade; she just hoped it wouldn’t veer into an obsession.

“Besides,” he continued, looking around distractedly. “This probably wouldn’t even be necessary if it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s bloody prison-camp searchlights.”

Molly gestured to the handle of the bedroom door, where she had quite skillfully managed to fling his pants a short while earlier (she had even made him pause in his ministrations to admire her sporting achievement). Sherlock shuffled off the bed to fetch his underwear.

“Yeah, um, that did kill the moment a little,” she admitted.

In the aftermath of Mycroft’s wedding, Sherlock had managed to persuade her that it was time to provide William with a sibling – and that it was necessary to begin doing so in the seclusion of Mycroft’s summerhouse. Or at least it had seemed like seclusion – until the security floodlights came on at a very pivotal moment.

“Not the only thing it killed,” Sherlock huffed, a swift glance south as he adjusted his pants.

Although it had quickly become clear that Mycroft hadn’t ‘released the hounds’ and that there weren’t government agents camouflaged in the shrubbery, they had decided to take things back to the guest room. Except that Sherlock’s squeamishness about having sex with William sleeping nearby meant that rather than the bedroom itself, it was actually the en suite bathroom, with its harsh lighting and inconvenient lack of flat surfaces.

There had been other efforts, too, in more conventional surroundings – but despite still being a bit erratic after William’s birth, her period had arrived almost bang on schedule about two weeks’ later. Molly had more than half-expected it anyway (two ‘one-shot’ pregnancies in a row would be borderline freakish), but the disappointment had been painted all over Sherlock’s face, even though she could see he was trying to rally himself for her benefit.

“C’mere,” Molly said, beckoning him back across to her. She kept motioning until Sherlock was leaning far enough across the bed for her to take his face in her hands.

“Sherlock, whether or not that was ‘decisive’ or ‘the one’,” she said, taking in his querying expression. “It was still lovely, and that’s important, too.”

The furrows that marked his forehead relaxed a little, and he nodded.

“Yes, it would seem foolish to turn one of my favourite pastimes into a chore,” he replied, dipping his head and allowing Molly to capture his lips with hers.

“Just one of?” she queried, eyebrow raised.

“Locked-room murders are pretty high up there,” he replied, tilting his head to one side. “Would probably have to add discrediting psychics as well – always extremely satisfying, particularly as, mysteriously, they never seem to see it coming.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

“- although those things carry the distinct disadvantage of not getting to see you naked,” he added briskly.

“Nicely saved,” Molly grinned, patting his cheek. “Although you’re now thinking of how me being naked might be compatible with those things, aren’t you?”

Sherlock gave a quick cough.

“Couldn’t possibly comment,” he said. “Instead, I am going to fetch you the requested glass of water and the aforementioned publication that neither of us actually believes you intend to read.”

She managed to hit his arse with a well-aimed pillow as he stooped to recover his trousers.

“I am definitely going to read it,” she retorted. “What if Mike asks me if I’ve read anything recently, and all I can say is  _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_?”

“I dislike that story,” Sherlock muttered, pulling on his trousers. “The incorrect usage of ‘cocoon’ rather than ‘chrysalis’ is extremely misleading for the developing infant. Anyway, Molly, I highly doubt that Stamford is going to interrogate you on the latest advances and debates in the field of pathology during what I understand is termed a ‘keeping in touch day’.”

Molly caught him wrinkling his nose at the very term. Git.

“He might,” she mumbled in response, pulling the duvet up to her elbows.

“Molly, Stamford couldn’t interrogate the lunch menu in the Bart’s canteen. He’s one of those  _nice_  people.”

Again, she saw the nose-wrinkle and an accompanying look that suggested – despite fatherhood and impending matrimony - Sherlock still found the world a very puzzling and exasperating place.

“I know,” Molly sighed. “And I know that it will probably be mostly cups of tea and photos of William, and maybe meeting new faces around the place, but still…”

How to express this conflicting gamut of emotions to someone who rarely suffered crises of confidence in their work, had never (to Molly’s knowledge) had a proper job with proper colleagues – let alone a boss - and who would certainly never face snide accusations of ‘baby brain’?

Sherlock stopped in the middle of fastening his trousers, and looked up, his expression softening around the edges as his eyes met hers. He swallowed, his gaze dropping for a second before rising again to meet hers.

“It will be fine, Molly,” he said, his voice a little softer than before. “You know it will. You were the youngest specialist registrar ever to be appointed by Bart’s, you have published papers in some of the world’s most eminent medical journals, and quite frankly you are the most intelligent and capable person, I know – and I’m including myself in that statement, in case that wasn’t clear.”

Molly smiled; she knew Sherlock didn’t believe in flattery, so to him this was mere statement of fact. 

“And there’s absolutely no need to worry about our son,” Sherlock continued. “William and I have a very stimulating and edifying day planned.”

It would be the first time that Sherlock had truly looked after William for a full day, single-handed, but in all honesty, that wasn’t a concern. Well, it was a bit of a concern – not his ability to care for their son, more his notions of what might constitute ‘stimulating and edifying’. Molly was fairly certain Sherlock didn’t have baby yoga or a ‘sing and sign’ class in mind.

“Sounds, um, fun,” Molly replied, diplomatically.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, distractedly. He was looking for something.

“Top of the wardrobe,” Molly pointed, suppressing a laugh.

“Oh, for god’s sake, woman!” Sherlock exclaimed in mock exasperation, rescuing his shirt from where she’d flung it. “Why must you turn sex into some kind of fairground game?”

“Do I win a prize?” she grinned, waggling her eyebrows at him.

“Sorry, no time for that with Hudders on the way,” he replied. “Besides, you’ve still got eight minutes remaining. Knees up, Molly.”

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but was met with a wink and the sight of Sherlock sweeping out of their bedroom door, still buttoning his shirt.

Yeah, no danger at all of this veering into an obsession.


	2. Chapter 2

She had survived the first day back at Bart’s, to the point where she had actually looked forward to the second, nearly two weeks later. This time she’d actually been able to get stuck into things (yep, corpses included), and the time had passed so quickly that she forgot to take a lunch break. Dashing out to get something from the canteen, she’d bumped into one of the research assistants from the lab, who had then proceeded to show Molly something she’d found on Twitter. Something that Sherlock somehow thought she wouldn’t see…

She called up the stairs when she arrived home, but got no response. Shouldering her bag, she made her way up to the flat, noting that the pushchair was in the hallway – although that was no guarantee that Sherlock and William were at home, given Sherlock’s preference for the baby carrier. Molly liked to think that it was because he enjoyed giving their son an elevated view of the world and a feeling of physical closeness, but she suspected that having his hands free to text had something to do with it.

As she approached the door, she could hear the muffled sound of Sherlock’s voice coming from one of the other rooms. At that point, her foot made contact with something on the floor and she only just maintained her balance. The culprit was a book.

“Sherlock?” she called, stooping to pick up the object that very easily could have been the cause of a broken neck.

It was a baby book, full of photographs of dogs. Molly felt an eyebrow raise spontaneously.

As she looked up and surveyed the living room, it started to tell a story. The part of the floor that was clean was scattered with books, all of which appeared to be of a canine topic. The section of floor that fell within a five-foot radius of William’s highchair was liberally spattered with what Molly recognised as the pureed spaghetti Bolognese she’d made in bulk for their son. As she took in the sight, Toby slunk out from a hidden spot and – after giving a cursory rub along her ankle – started to investigate the spilled baby food.

“No, Tobes,” Molly sighed, but the cat paid no attention; apparently, he was a fan of mushed Italian food. He’d probably eaten worse things since they moved into 221B.

“Suit yourself,” she told him. “But no dinner for you later. And no begging from Mrs Hudson either.”

“In the bathroom, Molly!” Sherlock’s voice called out.

She dropped her bag and made her way down the hall, pushing open the bathroom door. The sight that greeted her wasn’t quite what she was expecting – William was in the bath…and so was Sherlock. On seeing Molly, William shrieked with delight and started thrashing both of his little fists in the water, giving his father a good soaking as he tried to keep the baby steady. Despite the bone that she had to pick with Sherlock, she had to admit this was bloody adorable – slightly bizarre, yes, but bloody adorable.

“Hello, my sweetheart!” Molly crooned to William, crouching by the tub and not really caring whether she ended up changing her clothes, too. She took one of his dimpled little hands and leaned over to kiss his forehead, just beneath where the first signs of dark curls were starting to appear. Yeah, she might be slightly biased, but their son was _incredibly_ cute.

The originator of the dark curls was looking up at her expectantly, and Molly leaned across the bath and planted a quick, chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips. And if he looked disappointed by the brevity of the kiss, then he should have thought of that before he set off a Twitterstorm.

Sherlock looked at her with suspicion, which Molly chose to ignore.

“How was your day?” he asked, carefully, waggling a plastic octopus in William’s view. “Any good ones?”

“By ‘ones’ you mean murder victims, and by ‘good’, you mean-”

“Interesting, non-boring, yes,” Sherlock confirmed.

Molly shrugged, noncommittal. At this point, she wasn’t willing to indulge him.

“I see dinnertime went well,” she said brightly, changing the subject and glancing at the heap of Sherlock and William’s collective soiled clothes.

“Yes, the spoon is generally being used more as a catapult than as an aid to eating, isn’t it young man?” Sherlock replied. “It turns out he also favours Bolognese sauce as a hair pomade, but I’m not convinced it’s going to catch on. In the end, this -” - Sherlock gestured to the tub – “seemed like the simplest way to tackle it.”

Molly went to pick up the clothes, but her movements were greeted by whimpering from William, who clearly didn’t trust that she wasn’t going to disappear on him again. In the end, she reached for his yellow duck towel from the radiator, placed it on her knee and gestured for Sherlock to pass their little boy over.

“He may, ah, be keen on some further sustenance,” Sherlock said, as she gathered the warm, wet bundle of baby into the towel. “The suggestion of a bottle was greeted with a fairly unambiguous reaction – by which I mean an out-and-out rage - which is also how I discovered that our son finally has his first tooth.”

Sherlock held up the index finger on his right hand to display a distinctive bite-mark on the knuckle.

“You can kiss it better later,” he added, presumptuously.

“Can I really?” Molly replied, raising her eyebrows.

“Yeeess,” Sherlock said slowly. “As a prelude to other things, I very much hope.”

He was standing now, reaching for a towel of his own, and Molly had to have very harsh words with herself not to get distracted by dripping-wet-naked-Sherlock who, until around eighteen months ago, had been confined to the more feverish corners of her imagination (and brought out only for special occasions or when she’d had a really shit day).

She cuddled William in the towel, gently patting his hair and trying to avoid his attempts to jam one of her fingers into his now-hazardous mouth. Sherlock was right – he was angling for a feed.

“Been up to much today?” she asked, feigning casual innocence. Sherlock, she could see, was sceptical of her tone and was judging how best to proceed.

“The Science Museum was, as always, most diverting,” he replied, securing the towel around his waist. “Today we took in the ‘Journeys through Medicine’ exhibition. Did you know they are going to be opening new Medicine Galleries in 2019? Perfect timing for William.”

_Who will be two_ , thought Molly, with amusement. William was standing on her knees now, manically bouncing up and down, which seemed to be his current favourite thing – it was going to be a fair leap from this to the history of medicine.

“And this afternoon?” she prompted Sherlock. “Get up to much then?”

She offered him an innocent smile, and in return saw the barest flicker of discomfort.

“We, ah…we went out for a walk,” he replied, briskly. “Fresh air. Very invigorating.”

Molly sighed, hoisting William into her arms. He protested for a moment – deprived of the opportunity to bounce – before dragging the collar of her cardigan into his mouth (she would probably discover a hole in it later). 

“Where is it, then?” she asked Sherlock.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Where’s what, Molly?”

“You _know_ what,” she said, enjoying the undeniable feeling of power. “The deerstalker.”

Sherlock’s expression broke into a smug smile.

“Probably in the bedroom where you left it, Molly,” he replied, waggling his eyebrows.

“Not _your_ deerstalker,” she sighed. “ _His_ deerstalker. And don’t try to deny it, Sherlock – I’ve seen the photos. Me and, oh, around seventeen thousand other people. Wait-”

She dug her phone out of her hip pocket, and tapped on the app.

“Sorry, you’re up to twenty-three thousand now.”

She turned the screen around so he could see it, though he knew very well what she was talking about.

“Ah. That,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat. “About that, Molly…”

“This is going to be interesting, Sherlock,” she said, while gently removing her necklace from William’s mouth. “I’m looking forward to hearing you tell me how exactly a photo of our son in a tiny deerstalker hat is going viral across the globe?”

“Can I get dressed first?” he asked, gesturing to his towel. “This feels unfair.”

“Twenty- _five_ thousand, Sherlock,” Molly said, holding up her phone.

He sighed.

“The deerstalker was a gift from Lestrade’s team,” he said. “Would have seemed rude not to accept.”

_Since when did that stop you?_ , Molly thought, fleetingly.

“Yeah, but there’s accepting and then there’s taking a selfie, adding the caption ‘World’s Only Consulting Baby’ and then broadcasting it around the world,” she said, pointedly.

“Can I see?” he asked, gesturing for her to hand over the phone.

“Mm,” he mused. “Comments are much nicer than they usually are. Far fewer incidents of the words ‘wanker’ or ‘arsehole’. You get a mention, too...although…oh…”

“Uh-huh?” Molly said, patiently. Here it comes...

“Actually, not that complimentary,” Sherlock added, hurriedly. “Best not read that. I’ll respond to that later.”

“Please don’t,” Molly sighed.

“But people shouldn’t say things like that about you!” he replied, picking up William’s changing mat and following her out of the bathroom.

“’People’ are idiots,” she said, realising that this was usually _his_ line. “I mean, people on social media are mostly idiots – even if they aren’t in real life. This is the stuff we talked about, Sherlock. Keeping William out of all of _this_. Like it or not, you’re kind of a celebrity, and that makes William interesting to people. Most of them are harmless, but I’d rather not take any chances. And besides, the harmless ones can be really annoying, too.”

Molly remembered the week after William’s birth when they’d all been photographed leaving the cake place on Sherlock’s birthday, and suddenly the pictures were plastered across the tabloids – she and William were even on the bloody _Mail Online_. The world seemed fascinated that Sherlock Holmes could have reproduced – and with her, of all people. Headlines like ‘Famous sleuth has love-child with hospital worker!’ were forever etched in her mind; that particular one made it sound like Sherlock had had a sweaty quickie with one of the cleaning staff at Bart’s. Sherlock’s attempted defence of her, and threats to end the careers of several prominent newspaper editors, had done little to diffuse the situation.

“Are you…angry with me, Molly?” Sherlock asked, sounding a little like a chastened schoolboy.

Molly looked up from the changing mat, making sure to pin William in place with her forearm to prevent him from performing a commando roll.

“No, I…” she began. “I just worry sometimes, Sherlock.”

That was an understatement.

“You’re right,” he said, coming down to the floor to sit cross-legged beside her. “I perhaps got a tad carried away. From now on, the World’s Only Consulting Baby goes about town incognito.”

Molly snorted.

“Yeah. That would be a lot easier if he didn’t look _exactly_ like you,” she said. This, Molly knew, was one of the reasons that Sherlock couldn’t help himself when it came to their son – any opportunity to show him off.

“Point taken,” Sherlock nodded, reaching out to take William’s hand and blow a raspberry on his open palm. William let out a peal of gorgeous chuckles, which only encouraged his father further.  

“Oh, there is one more thing,” Molly said, lifting William in order to place the onesie on the mat underneath him. “The reason you and William were over in the East End in the first place. You weren’t by any chance taking our son to a crime scene?”

Sherlock frowned.

“I really would rather go and put on some pants for this conversation,” he protested.

“Sherlock?”

“Just a little one,” he sighed.

“A little crime scene?” Molly queried, pursing her lips at him enquiringly.

“Barely a four, and don’t worry, the body had gone by the time we arrived,” he continued. “Our son was not exposed to anything that wasn’t age-appropriate.”

Molly looked at him sideways, trying not to let a smile escape as she tucked William’s fidgeting arms and legs into his suit.

“I might be wrong, Sherlock, but I wouldn’t have thought many murder scenes _would_ be age-appropriate for a seven-month old.”

When she glanced up, she was surprised to see that Sherlock looked mildly wounded by her reproach.

“Molly, I would _never_ let anything happen to him,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “You and William…you know that nothing matters to me more in this world. I would never deliberately do anything to put either of you in harm’s way.”

She lifted William into her arms again, smoothing down his wispy hair.

“I know,” she said softly. “We just…we probably need to talk about these things some more. Decide what’s going to work.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“So…is he allowed to keep the hat?”

Molly snorted, shaking her head as Sherlock looked up at her slyly.

“You have to admit, Molly, he looked extraordinarily cute,” Sherlock continued, ever the master of pushing his luck.

Molly looked from one identical gaze to the other and sighed; she was doomed to a lifetime of being a sucker for those blue-green eyes, whichever direction she turned.

“Yes, he can keep the hat,” she smiled. “But no more Tweeting. And if his first word turns out to be ‘murder’, I’m going straight to your mum.”

At that, she saw a visible shiver pass through her fiancé’s body.

“Agreed,” he conceded.

Molly grinned.

“Thank you. You may now go and put some pants on.”

Sherlock pulled a face.

“You think it’s worth it? I’m calculating that William could be asleep inside the hour, and for what I had in mind for immediately after, I think you’ll find pants are entirely redundant.”

Molly rolled her eyes, despite herself. God, was she actually blushing at this stage in their relationship?

“Fine. I’ll see if I can settle him, and then…”

“Mm-hm.”

Sherlock pressed a goodnight kiss to the top of his son’s head, before pressing a very different kind of kiss to Molly’s lips. He was giving her _that_ look, the one that had undone her so many times over the years, the one that was at least partially responsible for William’s very existence.

As Molly reached the bottom of the stairs that led up to William’s room, she paused. Sherlock was already stretched out on the sofa in full relaxation mode, violin in his hand, apparently impervious to the weapons-grade mess surrounding him.

“Oh, and Sherlock?”

He looked up, bow in hand.

“The dog books aren’t very subtle,” she said, biting down on a smile.

Sherlock frowned, all wounded innocence

“William likes dogs,” he shrugged. “I’m merely allowing him to follow his interests."

Molly snorted dubiously, stifling a smile.

“Yeah, well, better tidy up this mess or you might not be allowed to follow yours tonight.”

As she started up the stairs with William, there was a brief pause before Molly heard the distinctive sound of large feet scampering from the living room to the kitchen, followed by the sink running and items being flung (probably fairly haphazardly) into cupboards.

Sherlock Holmes had found his motivation.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was intended as two chapters, but it kind of self-morphed into one slightly long, rambling one. 
> 
> Despite that, hope you enjoy!

John folded his arms and narrowed his eyes quizzically at the body on the ground in front of him, which had not that long ago gone head-to-head (or rather head-to-fender) with a car and lost.

“No ID on him at all?” he asked over his shoulder.

Lestrade appeared beside him, notebook in hand.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Only things he had on him were twenty quid in cash, a standard Yale door key, and a brand-new phone – one of those dead cheap, pay-as-you-go phones you can pick up in the supermarket. Hadn’t even peeled off the plastic screen protector. No numbers stored in it, no calls made or received.”

He held up the zip-lock evidence bag containing said phone.

“Oh, and there was this,” Lestrade continued, digging another bag out of his pocket.

John took the bag, which contained a piece of paper that had clearly been previously folded several times. On it was a series of hyphenated words, handwritten in pencil, none of which he immediately recognised.

“Sherlock?” Greg said. “Any theories?”

John looked up and clocked that his friend had that look on his face, the one that roughly translated as  _waste of my time_. He looked distracted, and had been surprisingly quiet up to this point – and it  _was_  surprising, considering it was the first promising case they’d had in about a fortnight.

“They’re not actual words,” Sherlock replied. “It’s phonetic. This man was struggling to pronounce something – almost certainly a name – and had to spell it out for himself, or have someone do it for him. The name is Eastern European, possibly Slovenian or Slovak, most likely a woman’s name. Our victim is of South East Asian origin, although has lived in this country for several years, but even so, a Slavic language would be an entirely alien tongue – however, it was vital that he be able to say this name without the slightest mistake.”

_Here we go_ , thought John.

“Why?” Greg asked.

“His suit is brand new,” Sherlock continued. “You can see that from the loose threads where the tags have recently been cut out, and from the fact that there is still cardboard in the breast pocket. I wouldn’t be surprised if the bag with the spare buttons is still attached somewhere, too. Brand new, yes, but very much a budget option – no sentimental value attached, the special occasion really not as special or important as what will happen as a result.”

“Sherlock?” John sighed.

“Lestrade, you should contact the registry offices at Southwark, Lambeth and possibly Kensington and Chelsea to be sure. The woman who is named in that note is due to be married at some point today, but it seems unlikely her groom is going to make the occasion. Probably no skin off her nose, as she was only doing it for the money – would have meant more to her husband, here, as it would most likely have meant residence rights and eventual citizenship.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“Sham marriage?” he said. “Is that  _it_?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, fine, but why is he dead?” Lestrade demanded.

“Hit by a car, wasn’t he?” Sherlock replied. “Even your lot had managed to work that out from the impact wounds and tyre marks. Oh, and the six eye-witnesses must have helped, too.”

John saw Greg respond with a sarcastic smile.

“I mean why would someone kill him? Surely there’s someone behind all this who stands to make a lot of money if these marriages go ahead?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, already packing his crime kit away. “Although if you kill the groom once you’ve got his money, you can recycle the bride. Either that, or he did something to give the game away and they didn’t like it very much.”

“You gonna tell me which?” Greg asked, with trademark weariness.

“I have to leave you  _something_  to do,” Sherlock replied. “Tax payers’ money pays your salary, after all. Besides, it’s not terribly interesting.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, thanks very much,” Lestrade snorted. “I’ll pass on your condolences to the victim’s family, shall I?”

“Didn’t have any,” Sherlock said, already engaged with something on his phone. “Sorry if that turns out to be a spoiler.”

John opened his mouth to formulate some sort of apology to the Detective Inspector, but a knowing exchange of glances between them was a pretty good shorthand these days.

“Guess I’ll see you around then, boys,” Lestrade said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Here, John, how are the stag-do plans comin’ along?”

John felt his face break into a broad smile, while at the same time Sherlock’s gaze shot up from his phone – there was the briefest flash of alarm on his face before he returned to his phone, trying to act as though he hadn’t reacted at all.

“It’s, ah, it’s in hand,” he replied, with a wink.

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock replied darkly, without looking up.

“Come on, Sherlock!” Lestrade said with a grin. “You gotta have a stag-do - it’s a time-honoured tradition, and everybody wins.”

“How, exactly?”

“You get off your face, and we get to laugh at you,” Greg shrugged, as though that was obvious.

“Yeeess, that does sound fun,” Sherlock replied, adjusting his scarf. “Well, I imagine it would if I had an IQ somewhere south of a house brick. Or, to put it another way, the average male employed by Scotland Yard.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to roll his eyes now.

“What about Molly? Isn’t she ‘aving an ‘en do?”

“If Molly decides she wishes to go through the hackneyed and witless ritual that is the traditional ‘hen-do’, that is entirely her decision,” Sherlock said. “The only tradition I care about is the one that will make her my wife.”

Lestrade nudged John with his elbow.

“Aahh, ‘e’s got me all misty-eyed now,” he grinned. “Just think what ‘e’ll be like with six pints in ‘im.”

John snorted. Just once in a while it was nice to see Sherlock Holmes squirm.

“Not happening,” Sherlock grunted. “Unlike the pair of you, it is fairly essential to my work that I have more than two working brain cells to rub together. I therefore have no wish to effectively commit neuron genocide by getting, as you so charmingly put it, Lestrade, ‘off my face.’”

“Listen,” John replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “When I was being subjected to the worst stag-do in recorded memory, not for a second did I think that I might have the chance to repay the favour. Accept it, Sherlock – it’s happening.”

“You do recall how simple I would find it to kill you both and make it look like an embarrassing accident?”

John shook his head, but took the opportunity once Sherlock’s gaze was elsewhere to throw an affirmative glance back at Greg, reassuring him that the matter wasn’t over. When the hell he’d have the time to organise a stag-do on top of everything else, he had no idea, but now Sherlock had essentially laid down a challenge, and it was one he intended to meet.

They were just about to leave when Greg piped up again.

“Oi, Sherlock, thanks for bringing the little ‘un along the other day,” he called. “Did wonders for the Met’s social media profile.”

John glanced at Sherlock and saw his face blanche.

“What?” he managed.

“The Met,” Greg continued. “On Twitter. Someone in our media team re-Tweeted the photo you put up there, or whatever it is they do. Got some brilliant comments - the Chief Inspector loved it.”

“And…just how many people, ah, follow the Metropolitan Police on Twitter?” Sherlock asked, carefully, with the worst attempt at causal insouciance that John had ever seen.

Greg shrugged.

“Over a million, I think.”

Forcing himself to swallow a burst of laughter, John did a quick scan of his phone.

“Yeah, wow,” he said, holding the phone out to Sherlock. “Twenty-four thousand ‘likes’ and nine thousand re-Tweets. Impressive. That’s got to be a Met record, eh, Greg?”

He saw Sherlock blink, and worried for a second that his friend might be going into standby mode again.

“Dear god,” he said eventually, an actual note of fear in his tone. “Molly is never going to allow me to take our son out unaccompanied ever again.”

Greg chuckled, and turned back to the crime scene, while John gently nudged Sherlock in the direction of the main road. He seemed to be in some kind of temporary daze.

“Grovelling,” John said, leaning in towards Sherlock as they walked. “Trust me, it’s actually not as bad as it’s made out to be.”

“I’m well-practiced, John,” Sherlock replied, his eyes straight ahead.

Of course he was; Sherlock’s whole relationship with Molly had begun as one massive down-on-your-knees, heart-on-your-sleeve begging exercise.

John knew that once they’d reached the main road, Sherlock would immediately look for a cab, but he’d spotted a coffee van on the corner and he was bloody gasping. When Sherlock had texted from the flat above that morning, he’d been rushing around to get Rosie ready for the childminder, still hopeful that he might get a bite of breakfast before he left. But even though he’d ended up throwing Rosie at Molly to finish the dressing process, the only thing he’d managed to grab from the kitchen was one of his daughter’s organic oat bars. It was then that he understood why Rosie was so stubbornly indifferent to them, and why she preferred the ones that Mrs Hudson bought her. One of the privileges of being a godparent – the freedom to be blissfully blasé about sugar content.

“Want one?” John asked Sherlock, digging out his wallet.

“Hm?”

“Coffee?” John gestured at the stall, his face quirking into a smile at his friend’s obvious distractedness. 

Sherlock hummed his assent, sounding a little distant. John placed the order, and sod it, picked up a lemon muffin as well.

“So what is it, Sherlock?” John asked, trying to ignore the coffee pangs as he watched the vendor at the machine. “You wondering whether there’s more to this case than just a sham marriage operation?”

“Molly got her period.”

And…that wasn’t what he was expecting. John stilled for a moment, his eyes on the pastries in front of him. As he slowly looked up, he saw the eyes of the twentysomething coffee vendor flick uncomfortably from him to Sherlock and back again.

John cleared his throat, shaking his head quickly to bring him back to the situation in hand. He swiftly handed over the money and stuck a coffee cup in Sherlock’s hand.

“Okay,” he said eventually, with a puzzled smile. “Is this something you’ve been telling me every month, and it’s just that this is the first time I’ve been listening?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but his face pulled into a slight frown.

“That’s normal, you know, Sherlock,” John continued. “Often takes a good few months after childbirth for a woman’s body to resume its, ah, natural cycles.”

Yes, he was a medical professional, but it still felt faintly uncomfortable to be having this conversation with another grown man in the middle of a busy London high street. _Oh, for pity’s sake, Dr Watson, get a grip!_ he heard Mary’s voice in his head pipe up.

He saw Sherlock swallow, his eyes narrow for a moment.

“John…”

It was then that the pieces clicked into place.

“Oh…you’re disappointed,” he said, suddenly feeling like an idiot for not being able to read it earlier. “You’re, er, trying, then?”

It seemed like five minutes ago since he had waited in that hospital room, trying to keep an increasingly terrified and despairing Sherlock together while, across the hallway, surgeons urgently operated to deliver his son. But John only had to look at Rosie to be reminded how quickly time passed in the lives of small children.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, with a sigh. “Trying, but not achieving the right result.”

“Okay…” John said, carefully. This was looking like one of those situations where Sherlock clearly wanted his input, but would snap at him like a cobra if he said the wrong thing. “So how long have you been trying?”

“Eight weeks,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft’s wedding.”

John realised that he had spontaneously pulled a face at that, and quickly tried to adopt a more neutral expression; he couldn’t think of anything less likely to spark his libido than Mycroft Holmes’ wedding.

“Not in that lull between the service and the meal?” he found himself asking. That bit always seemed to drag – even at his own wedding,  _especially_  at Mycroft’s wedding – and it was even worse when you were looking after a small child and couldn’t actually get pissed. John now wondered why, at his own wedding, he hadn’t dragged Mary upstairs to their suite during that bit.

Sherlock shot him a slightly exasperated look, which warned him he was going off-topic.

“Look, two months is nothing, Sherlock,” he said, attempting to unwrap the lemon muffin while they walked. “You were freakishly lucky with Will – although not sure Molly felt that way at the time – but anyway, the point is that’s not the norm. Plus, Molly’s body is probably still recovering from the last pregnancy; it can take a while for things to get back to how they were. Though God knows it feels like a waste of breath to say it, Sherlock, but you might just have to be patient.”

At the mention of the ‘p’ word, John saw Sherlock’s shoulders visibly slump. It would be more realistic to ask Sherlock to set fire to his Stradivarius than to suggest that he wait for something he wanted.

“Time is not on our side, John,” he sighed, a little sadly. “Molly is thirty-eight.”

_And she was thirty when you first met her_ , John thought to himself, although it felt unfair to say it out loud – he imagined Sherlock had spent plenty of time beating himself up over ‘wasted’ years, and didn’t need him to land any additional blows.

“Relax, Sherlock. Plenty of women have babies into their early forties. I mean, look at us – Mary was nearly forty when Rosie was born.”

“That’s what Molly said,” Sherlock huffed.

The whole trying-to-peel-a-wrapper-off-a-muffin-while-walking-and-holding-a-coffee-cup wasn’t working.

“Hold this a second,” John said, thrusting his cup at Sherlock, who looked at it slightly mournfully. “How does Molly feel about all this?”

“Wants to see what happens,” Sherlock replied, morosely. “Allow nature to take its course.”

The latter part of that statement had blatant air-quotes attached to it, which John chose to ignore.

“Sounds sensible to me,” he said, finally taking a bite of muffin.

“Yes, John, but nature is inherently capricious and stupid,” Sherlock continued. “Nature gave us the duck-billed platypus, the malarial mosquito and Mycroft. Nature can’t be relied upon.”

This time it was John’s turn to sigh. He had assumed they would be taking a cab back to Baker Street, but apparently it seemed as though they were walking, Sherlock’s speed increasing as he became more agitated.

“You’ve both got more than enough on your plate at the moment with one child,” he tried to reason. “Plus, you’re getting married in a few weeks - probably best to obsess over that for the time being.”

Sherlock made a humph sound in response, which John translated as  _thanks for nothing_.

“I found an app,” he said eventually. “Thought I could, you know, keep track of things. But it was somewhat challenging to gauge Molly’s body temperature without her knowledge.”

At this remark, John inhaled a chunk of muffin and for a brief moment thought that he was going to meet his maker outside Pret á Manger on Westminster Bridge Road. He eventually recovered the power of speech, his eyes still watering. Sherlock was apparently oblivious to his near-asphyxiation, the git.

“You actually tried that?” he gagged. “Using what?”

Sherlock shot him a look, which he read as  _don’t be so infantile_.

“With William’s digital thermometer,” he replied.

“And what was Molly doing at the time?”

“Asleep,” Sherlock said. “But I rather overlooked the fact that it emits a rather piercing beep.”

“Thermometer or Molly?” – he couldn’t help himself; that one just slipped out.

Sherlock glared at him.

“Still - doing that while she was asleep?” John said, clearing his throat. “Bit Not Good, Sherlock.”

“Trust me, I know,” Sherlock sighed. “I still have neck spasms from sleeping on the sofa.”

John smirked and took another bite of the cake.

“Molly’s a light sleeper, I suppose from getting up in the night for William,” Sherlock continued. “It used to be so  _easy_  with you.”

John immediately stopped in his tracks, swallowing the mouthful of muffin uncomfortably quickly.

“What do you mean? What used to be easy with me?”

“When you lived at Baker Street, I would regularly take hair, fingernail and saliva samples from you while you were asleep,” Sherlock elaborated. “You were an excellent control for my experiments. Saliva samples were particularly easy, considering your tendency to, ah…”

He did a vaguely circular gesture around his own mouth.

“…drool.”

John sighed deeply, feeling his bile start to rise. 

“I think, Sherlock, for the sake of our friendship – and assuming that you would still like a Best Man in four weeks’ time - it would be best if we never speak about this again, hm?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked from left to right, as though he was confused by the virulence of John’s reaction, but eventually he nodded his assent.

“Anyway,” Sherlock said, brushing the subject to one side as he did so deftly. “I have come to the realisation that I need to concentrate my efforts on what  _I_  can influence, namely the quality and mobility of my-”

“ _Boys_ ,” John cut in quickly, anxious that this very public conversation not become any more awkward than it already was.

“Indeed,” Sherlock nodded.

“Well, you’ve been off the sweeties for nearly two years,” John said, throwing the muffin wrapper into a bin as they passed. “You stopped smoking not long after you and Molly got together, you barely drink alcohol, and these days, between your fiancée and Mrs Hudson, you usually eat at least one proper meal a day. As your doctor, I’d say you were doing all the right things, Sherlock.”

“You may have observed, too, John, that I have made a habit of keeping my phone in my coat pocket while not in use,” Sherlock continued, tapping his chest. “A major study has shown that sperm concentration decreased to an abnormal level in forty-seven per-cent of men who carried their phone around fifty centimetres from their groin all day. In addition, because wearing tight underwear raises the testicles closer to the body and consequently heats them beyond the optimum temperature for sperm production, I have made some appropriate wardrobe changes.”

“Boxers?” John replied, relieved that London was generally rushing past them far too quickly to take in the nature of their conversation.

“Mm, sometimes,” Sherlock replied, with a tilt of his head. “Although, generally, noth-”

“Yeah, alright,” John said quickly, nodding. “Thanks.”

But as Sherlock directed him towards a branch of Tesco’s, John surreptitiously slipped his phone out of his jeans and into his jacket pocket instead. It was unlikely, yes, but you never know.

“What was I thinking?!” Sherlock suddenly announced. “Caffeine! Need to cut down.”

At which point, he thrust his coffee cup into the hand of the homeless man sitting with his dog outside Tesco. John looked at him, open-mouthed.

“Did you drink  _any_  of that?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied, in a wounded tone. “Why would I give someone a half-drunk cup of coffee? That would be incredibly discourteous, John.”

John snorted.  _Incredibly discourteous_  - of course.

“Yeah, well next time I ask you if you want a coffee, remind me to skip the middle man and just give three quid straight to charity.”

The sarcasm seemed to have very little effect – or more likely it was being completely disregarded. Either way, Sherlock was now moving through the supermarket in a very purposeful manner, scanning the shelves as he went.

“And we’re here…why?” John asked, mentally scanning the contents of his own fridge and cupboards.

“Spinach,” Sherlock announced, scooping up a package from the cooler and dumping it in John’s arms. “Source of magnesium, supports male hormonal health.”

Oh god - he could see where this was going.

Within a couple of aisles, in addition to the spinach, John’s arms were loaded with several cans of tuna (“can’t stand the stuff, but it aids sperm motility”), a pack of steaks (“zinc improves the form, function and quality of sperm”) and several other foodstuffs that he couldn’t see working together in meal form. He also found that he was getting strangely used to hearing the word ‘sperm’ in an open setting, and eventually stopped trying to offer apologetic looks to passers-by.

Sitting atop of all this were several packets of maize-based baby snacks, which, by the time they got to the checkout, were joined by a bag of premium-brand jelly sweets.

“Let me guess,” John sighed. “Some obscure ingredient in the sweets turns your sperm into guided missiles?”

At this, Sherlock looked askance, and almost embarrassed on behalf of his fellow shoppers.

“No…they’re Molly’s favourite,” he said, now starting to look a little embarrassed on his own behalf.

John felt his face start to pull into a grin. He never grew tired of being reminded that the man who claimed to value cold reason above all else, who once declared sentiment to be a chemical defect, was actually a big bloody softy who wanted to make his girlfriend smile. Or possibly let him back in their bed.

“What?” Sherlock demanded darkly.

“Nothing!” John replied, cheerily. “Ignore me - I’m just your shopping basket after all.”

As they approached the self-checkout, John heard a text alert chirp from Sherlock’s phone – the one he instantly recognised as being assigned to Mycroft’s number. Sherlock whipped the phone out from his pocket with a sigh, checked the message - and almost immediately took off at high speed.

“Sherlock? What the-?” John began.

But he only went as far as the stand of newspapers, snatching up a broadsheet and hurriedly rifling through the pages. When Sherlock found what he was looking for, he folded the paper over and thrust it under John’s nose.

John frowned, barely able to read the text hovering centimetres from his nose.

“What am I looking at?”

“My parents have outdone themselves!” Sherlock replied, in his very best drama-queen voice.

Eventually, John put enough distance between himself and the newspaper to be able to read the source of Sherlock’s ire. It turned out he was looking at the announcements page of _The Daily Telegraph_.

_“Mr TEW Holmes and Mrs WR Holmes are delighted to announce the occasion of the marriage of their younger son, Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes of Marylebone, London, to Dr Molly Louise Hooper…”_

Sherlock’s parents had spared no expense with their notice, going on to give the date of the wedding, the location of the registry office and the venue of the reception. So, the wedding plans that Sherlock and Molly had been at pains to keep private were now a matter of very public record.

As Sherlock stormed out of the supermarket with his phone to his ear, John called after him, still with an armful of groceries.

“Oi! Do you actually want these things?”

“Keep the sweets and those baby crisp things,” Sherlock called back. “However, I’m now suddenly far less inclined to furnish my mother and father with further grandchildren.”

_Well_ , John, reflected, as he deposited the unwanted groceries into the arms of a passing teenage shop assistant, _at least now his attention is on something else_.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this next chapter up – impressively, there are apparently still places you can go on holiday in the UK without Wi-Fi access or 4G (although usually preferable to know this in advance!)
> 
> Also, we listened to an awful lot of ‘Cabin Pressure’ in the car (keeps everyone quiet), so I have been struggling to keep Martin Crieff’s voice off the page! 
> 
> And…it turns out that I’ve basically just written 2,000-odd words of complete fluff - but if you like Sherlock going head-to-head with Mummy and Daddy Holmes, you’ll hopefully enjoy this chapter!

It made for a nice scene, Sherlock conceded to himself: the garden at his parents’ house on a balmy August afternoon, Molly helping Rosie to water the flowers with a miniature watering can - even John snoring underneath the Sunday supplements.

“Almost idyllic, eh, William? Pleasantly bucolic, one could almost say,” Sherlock said, adjusting the sunhat on his son’s head. “Such a  _shame_  I have to un-invite Granny and Grandad from the wedding, hm?”

Molly had been fairly sanguine about his parents’ decision to help the nation’s tabloid hacks and resentful criminal underclass in their efforts to derail their wedding day. More sanguine, he noted, than her reaction to the Twitter photo (seventeen thousand re-Tweets from the Met account, the last time he dared to look). He had once again floated the idea of elopement, even offering the sweetener of taking John, Rosie and Mrs Hudson with them (they  _would_  need witnesses, he acknowledged), but Molly wouldn’t go for it. Loved the idea of running away with him, she said, but couldn’t do it to everyone – and by ‘everyone’ she meant his parents. She did seem oddly attached to them.

William yanked the sunhat from his head and cast it onto the grass, giggling at his achievement and no doubt at the expression on his father’s face.

“You’re right, William,” Sherlock told him. “It  _is_  still hilarious the sixteenth time. Much like your Uncle John’s jokes.”

“Heard that, you git,” John murmured. “Not actually asleep.”

A text alert chirped from his phone, a follow-up from Lestrade about a woman who claimed that her cat had shot her husband. His interactions with Toby suggested to Sherlock that the will to murder a human being was probably there, but he couldn’t be convinced on the issue of dexterity.

He started to tap out a response, trying to keep his phone at arm’s length from William’s spirited grabs.

“You’re not  _working_  are you, darling?” came his mother’s voice. Speaking of cats – she had the bloody stealth of one.

“No, Mother, I am showing William the natural splendor of the garden in full bloom.”

“Is that brain-matter?”

Sherlock quickly withdrew his phone and clicked the lock-screen button (Lestrade and the murderous cat would have to wait). He looked up to see Molly grinning at him across the garden; he thoroughly approved of the cut-off-shorts-and-bare-feet look, and would have to convey his appreciation later.

“It was nice of you to finally accept our invitation, Sherlock,” Wanda Holmes said with a hint of sarcasm. “One would have thought from your previous responses that the Metropolitan Police had been disbanded and you were taking over their entire workload.”

His mother leaned in to tickle William’s chin, which resulted in a traitorous giggle.

“Actually, there  _was_  a reason why now seemed a good time to visit,” Sherlock ventured. “Seeing as, oh, we now have to plan a wedding from scratch in less than four weeks.”

His mother narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock sighed. She knew exactly what he meant.

“Well, thanks to you and Dad, the entire nation now has a detailed itinerary for our wedding. Given that I distinctly remember a conversation about needing to keep things low-key, I can only surmise that when you made this decision you were both having a ‘senior moment’?”

“Look at these adorable curls, Timothy!” she said, calling over her shoulder as she lovingly touched the top of William’s head.

“Yes, yes – back to the small matter of you ruining our wedding day?” Sherlock cut in.

“Oh honestly, sweetheart!” his mother replied, rolling her eyes. “You’re not royalty, and you’re not George Clooney. You occasionally create enough of a drama to get yourself in the paper, yes, but I don’t think one tiny advertisement is going to bring hordes of marauding journalists to your door.”

“Who’s _George Clooney_?” Sherlock said, before realising that he didn’t actually care. “Never mind. Actually, Mother, reporters are a mere nuisance. What concerns me a teensy bit more are the devious psychopaths and gangs of criminal lowlifes it’s going to attract.”

“Do they regularly read the announcements section of  _The Telegraph_?” his mother queried. “And besides, Sherlock, I’m not sure you’re one to talk about privacy. The chap who cleans our windows showed me the photograph you posted of William in that little hat – I believe it was quite popular?”

Bugger.

Although it was actually a pleasant surprise that it hadn’t come from Mycroft.

“Yes, okay, fine,” he replied through gritted teeth. “But the wedding plans still need to change.”

“As you wish, darling,” Wanda Holmes said, lifting her grandson out of his arms. “Just let us know the details.”

“Don’t count on it,” Sherlock muttered, as his mother took William off to see his grandfather.  

Straight away, he crossed the lawn to where John was sitting in the deckchair, now holding a glass ridiculously stuffed with fruit and garnished with leaves.

“What does your mum put in this?” he asked, blinking widely, as Sherlock approached.

“No idea, but I expect it keeps my father in submission,” he replied flatly. “I need your help with a plan.”

“What plan?”

“Thanks to my parents’ mindless blundering, Plan A wedding needs to become the decoy wedding, Plan B becomes Plan A, and I need a new Plan B.”

John shook his head and glanced at his drink.

“What in the name of all things holy are you going on about, Sherlock?”

“Weddings, John, try to keep up. Molly and I. Getting married.”

“Yeah, I got that part. It’s just that it now sounds like you’re planning  _three_  weddings.”

“Well, yes, sort of,” Sherlock continued.

 “Pull up a seat,” John grinned, gesturing to the empty deckchair beside him.

Sherlock frowned. There was literally no way one could hold an important conversation while sitting in a form of seating that could, at any given moment, collapse entirely or enfold its occupant within its lethal wooden limbs.

“Look, I’d offer to get up, but thanks to your mum’s ‘summer punch’, I’m not convinced I’d be standing for long,” John said. “You could always sit there instead.”

He was indicating to the picnic blanket that was strewn with William and Rosie’s toys, hardly a dignified option for a grown man wearing a bespoke suit and hand-made Italian shoes. In the end, Sherlock settled for perching on the low, dry-stone wall.

“Right, listen carefully,” he began, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his hands under his chin.  “Obviously, we can’t cancel the original venue, because word of that will get out. So we leave everything as it is, and it instead serves as a decoy.”

“Won’t the lack of guests and, you know, a bride and groom, give the game away a bit?”

“Oh, there’ll be guests!” Sherlock replied. “It would hardly be a very good decoy without them. That’s in hand. Plan B is also fairly solid, just requires a few tweaks here and there, but it’s more or less ready to bring into play as the real thing.”

John squinted at him and rubbed at his brow.

“Hang on. You already had a backup wedding planned?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend.

“You...didn’t?”

John barked with laughter.

“Er, no, Sherlock,” he replied. “In case you didn't notice at the time, Mary and I found planning the one wedding was about as much as we could manage while still maintaining both our sanity and our relationship.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied. “Just as well I had that covered, then.”

“Sorry?” John said. “Are you saying that you organised a Plan B wedding, without telling us, just in case anything went wrong with the original?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, by the time it transpired that a murder was to be committed during the evening do, it was rather too late to change horses mid-stream. However, the current scenario only serves to prove the wisdom of a Plan B, and it thankfully only leaves me with the challenge of finding a satisfactory alternative to move into its place.”

“Satisfactory alternative for what?”

Sherlock looked around to see Molly right behind him, somehow managing to carry William in one arm while giving Rosie a piggyback. Rosie was sort of hanging off her, but still shrieking with delight, while William was determinedly trying to reach over his mother’s shoulder to grab at the little girl he currently idolised. Sherlock felt his heart perform some kind of flip, as it still did every time he was reminded that Molly was his - and this particular sight only served to increase his yearning (there really was no other word for it) to have another child with her.

“Hi Molls,” John said, catching Rosie in a hug as she sped into his arms. “Come here, you monkey!”

Molly came to sit beside Sherlock, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. He turned, capturing her lips in a longer, sweeter, more satisfying kiss, his hand finding the lovely bare skin of her thigh - until they were interrupted.

“What Uncle Serlock Aunty Molly doing?” Rosie asked inquisitively. “Kissy-kissy?”

Sherlock heard Molly snigger in his ear, the intimacy completely shattered. It also coincided with his son lurching from his place on Molly’s lap to clamp his gums (and single tooth) around Sherlock’s jacket lapel.

“Yeah, Rosie,” John replied, with raised eyebrows. “Your Uncle Sherlock and Aunty Molly like to do a lot of kissy-kissy, don’t they?”

“Make new baby?” Rosie asked brightly.

Sherlock felt Molly’s muffled giggles against his neck. What the hell had John been sharing with their not-yet-three-year old goddaughter?

“It’s where I told her babies come from,” John explained quickly. “Didn't expect to get that question quite so early, so I’ll admit I panicked slightly.”

“Your mum said to tell you that lunch is almost ready,” Molly said, rearranging her face into a more neutral expression, despite the gorgeous blush that Sherlock was enjoying. “And Mycroft will be here in ten minutes.”

“Too late to pack up the car?”

Molly shoved him lightly in the ribs.

“I’ll see you inside in a moment,” Sherlock told her, retrieving his phone from his pocket. “Just need to, ah...ring a man about a cat.”

Molly grinned, hitching William onto her hip.

“I won’t tell your mum,” she said. “Oh, and what was it you and John were talking about before, Sherlock? The, um, ‘satisfactory alternative’?”

Since the day he confessed to Molly that he had planned all along to get her pregnant (and yes, that did still sound imbecilic, even in his head), Sherlock had made it a policy never to lie to or otherwise mislead her again. There was too much at stake.

“We can talk about it later,” he replied. He could tell from Molly’s pursed lips and slightly narrowed eyes that even if she hadn’t yet guessed the topic of conversation, she would most definitely still hold him to it. Still, she accepted his parting kiss, waiting while he planted another kiss on William’s crown, getting a quick hit of his baby son’s unique scent.

Molly had only been gone a few moments, and Sherlock had only just swiped to the keyboard of his phone when he sensed that someone was ambling up behind him. Given that he only really knew one person who could be relied upon to ‘amble’, it wasn’t difficult to deduce who was about to disturb him.

“Ah, there you are, old boy!”

 Good god. Since when did he become ‘old boy’?

“Yes, Dad, surprisingly enough I am precisely where you last saw me,” Sherlock replied, turning to greet his father. Fresh from the kitchen, he was wearing an apron bearing the unfortunate slogan  _Warning! Hot stuff coming through_.

“Well, I’m still getting used to that, I suppose,” Timothy Holmes smiled. “You still being here, I mean. Your mother and I used to take bets on how long it would be before you did a runner on us. I think your record was four minutes, when you gave us the slip during the aperitifs at your Uncle Rudy’s anniversary dinner.”

Sherlock knew he was probably supposed to offer a belated apology, but really, standing around pretending to celebrate someone (Carolyn? Caroline?) managing to stay married to Uncle Rudy for twenty-five years was a waste of everyone’s time. Including Uncle Rudy’s, as it turned out – the divorce settlement was still rumbling on in court three years later.

“Your young lady has changed a lot of things,” his father continued, coming to stand beside him.

Sherlock sensed rather keenly – although also rather too late – that his father was gearing up to impart some of the wisdom he’d presumably been sitting on for the past twenty years, waiting for one of his offspring to pair off with someone.

“She has,” he agreed, tentatively.

“Your mother tells me that you’re trying,” his father continued.

It took Sherlock a moment to realise that there wasn’t more to that sentence still to come. His mother had described him as a lot of things over the years, and in all honesty, ‘trying’ was one of the tamer designations.

“Trying…what?”

“You and Molly,” Timothy Holmes smiled, affably. “Trying to conceive. Marvellous news, of course.”

Sherlock hadn’t realised it was possible to choke without actually having something stuck in your throat or windpipe - but he managed it anyway.

“H-how does Mummy  _know_  that?” he gasped.

“Oh, I think Molly mentioned it to her,” his father replied airily. “Either that or your mother trapped her in a room with an angle-poise lamp and demanded to know whether further grandchildren were on the cards.”

His father chuckled.

“I wouldn’t put it past her, you know. She’s absolutely besotted with little William. We both are.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying not to let his father’s warmth and general contentedness rub off on him.

“Yes, well, it’s…something we’re considering,” he replied, being careful to keep his eyes on the horizon.

At which point, he felt his father’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. Sherlock chanced a sideways glance at the offending hand. Yup, this was definitely a prelude to wisdom-impartation.

“You know, Sherlock, you mustn’t worry if it takes a little while,” his father began. “As you know, it took over six years for us to conceive you. We started to wonder whether your brother had done some irreparable damage to your mother when he arrived in the world – he was quite a bouncing baby, after all.”

_Polite term for massive, great big mutant baby. And yes, trust Mycroft to try to sabotage the creation of any future siblings._

“Anyway,” Timothy Holmes continued. “We just kept trying. Tried all sorts of things people recommended, but who knows whether any of them actually had any effect. Of course, the trick is to not make it become routine – but your mother was always very good at keeping things interesting in the bedroom department.”

 _Enough!_ He was actually starting to sweat. Molly would no doubt think this was hilarious, as would Mycroft – given that he wasn’t on the receiving end (and likely never would be). 

“Okay, yes, fine, thank you, Dad – appreciate the…whatever this is, but I-”

“Relax and enjoy each other!”

Was he  _really_  still speaking?

“Although one word of warning,” his father continued, with a conspiratorial chuckle, “We relaxed a bit  _too_  much after you were born, Sherlock – bit blasé with the old birth control, relied a bit too much on the breast-feeding doing the job, and suddenly your sister was on the way, too.”

Someone up there apparently liked him (implausible though that seemed), as at that very moment – just as he thought he might have to feign a stroke - Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a text alert.

“While we’re sharing, Dad,” he said, clearing his throat. “Which is just  _lovely_ , by the way – how would you like to see a photograph of someone who may or may not have been shot in the head by their four-year old Siamese cat?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Sherlock got to the dining room, John had arranged Rosie in her booster seat and Molly had managed to insert William into his highchair and secure the harness – not an easy task, as he usually stiffened his legs and stubbornly tried to resist all efforts to be seated. He was currently being pacified by some very orange-looking baby snacks, which had already given the lower part of his face a distinctive orange hue. Every time he finished one, his little hand would shoot out and Rosie – who was sitting beside him – would pass another snack from the packet, taking her role very seriously. Occasionally, William would deposit some sticky powdered carrot in her hair, but Rosie didn’t seem particularly fazed.

Sitting as fair away from these proceedings as physically possible was his brother, who watched with an expression of mild horror.

“Wonderful surprise, Mycroft. Wasn’t expecting to see you today,” Sherlock said, taking a seat next to Molly. He immediately felt her hand slide onto his knee in greeting.

“And yet here I am, brother mine,” Mycroft replied, shaking out his serviette and placing it on his lap.

“Hmm,” Sherlock mused. “It’s not Christmas and it isn’t anyone’s birthday. Our mother hasn’t mentioned that you’ve committed any grave offence she expects you to make up for, and I doubt you’re here to help Dad mend the guttering on the shed. Wait - are you here to tell us you’re dying?”

“Sherlock!” his mother admonished, as she placed a dish of vegetables on the table.

“Much as I hate to disappoint you, little brother, that is not the case,” Mycroft answered. “The date merely became free in my diary.”

“You want something from me?” Sherlock continued, trying to decode his brother’s poker-face.

“No.”

“You want something from Mum and Dad?”

His brother scoffed.

“That hardly seems likely now, does it?”

“If you must know, Sherlock,” Wanda Holmes cut in, taking off her oven gloves. “Your brother is hiding.”

“I am  _not_!” Mycroft spluttered.

“Alicia’s son and daughter-in-law are visiting,” their mother continued. “With the baby.”

Sherlock saw his brother heave a gusty sigh and raise a hand to his forehead. This was brilliant!

“I am merely getting out of the away in order to allow my wife the greatest possible time and space with her family,” Mycroft replied.  

Sherlock snorted.

“Besides,” Mycroft continued. “It would be remiss of me to pass up the opportunity to see my own nephew.”

“Surprised you can actually see him from all the way over there, but lovely sentiment all the same, brother,” Sherlock said. “We’ll be sure to let you feed him his dessert course. I believe it’s chocolate pudding, so I hope you’ve brought your plastic poncho.”

“How old is Alicia’s grandson now?” Molly asked, handing William his beaker of water.

Mycroft looked confused by the question.

“From memory, I can tell you that the child in question is entirely bald, unable to sit up unaided and is not yet permitted to eat things like  _that_ ,” he replied, nodding in the direction of William, whose mouth was crammed with maize snacks.

“Three months,” their mother supplied. “Timothy and I actually met up with them all when we were up in town last week. Very plain child, very unremarkable.”

“Wanda,” his father warned.

“No, do carry on,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid young Piers Smallwood has inherited the startlingly weak chin from his grandfather’s side of the family. I’ve rather run dry of meaningless platitudes with which to appease the child’s parents.”

“Anyway, why were you in London?” Sherlock asked his mother. A secondary thought was why the app on his phone that tracked the GPS of his mother’s SIM card hadn’t alerted him to this.

“We told you we were coming, Sherlock!” Wanda Holmes replied, cutting into a leek and bacon quiche. “Anyway, I do believe we’re allowed to pay the occasional visit to the city you call home.”

“William and I met them for lunch, remember?” Molly put in, adding, quietly but pointedly, “You were mysteriously difficult to get hold of that day.”

“We were looking at some potential bolt-holes,” his mother continued.

“Bolt-holes?” Sherlock echoed. The word couldn’t help but evoke sensory memories of nights secretly spent in Molly’s flat, years before he ever admitted to himself that he wanted to make a permanent home with her.

“Yes, a little city pad,” she said. “I’m sure we mentioned it.”

Sherlock almost felt himself gag at his mother’s use of the term ‘city pad’.

“That sounds prohibitively expensive,” Sherlock replied, hopefully.

“Not really,” Wanda Holmes replied. “Our financial adviser sees it more of an investment, and now that we have a little grandson to visit, it makes more sense than paying all of those train fares back and forth. Unless you would like to offer us regular accommodation at Baker Street? Yes, I thought not. Don’t worry – we’re not going to blow your inheritance, Sherlock. Well, not all of it anyway. You’ll still get your father’s coin collection.”

“We saw a lovely little place near Belsize Park,” his father cut in. “And a wonderful bargain in Barnsbury. One bedroom, marvellous little spot. In fact, we’re going there for a second viewing on Thursday.”

“Which reminds me,” Wanda Holmes said, waving at her family to start serving themselves. “Molly, how would you feel about letting us take William for a couple of hours in the afternoon?”

“An authority on the London property market is he?” Mycroft asked. “Quite the little chap about town.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” their mother replied. “ _Not_  to see the flat. One of the theatres is putting on something called  _Baby Showstoppers_  – sort of an introduction to the classic musicals for under threes. I’m sure William would love it.”

Sherlock felt the blood run cold in his veins, and caught John smirking at him out of the corner of his eye. Molly’s fingers squeezed his knee, and he wasn’t sure whether she was warning him or trying to console him.

“That sounds lovely!” Molly replied, to Sherlock’s bemusement. “I’m sure he’d love it, too. He loves anything Sherlock plays for him.”

He was about to point out that Bartok’s ‘Sonata for solo violin’ and Mendelssohn’s ‘Lider ohne Worte’ were hardly comparable with the horrors he’d had to endure on long car journeys as a child. Despite copious attempts at deletion, his father’s rendition of ‘Bless Your Beautiful Hide’, and his mother’s ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair’ were indelibly carved into his cranial cortex.

“We could take Rosie, too, if you like, John?” Timothy Holmes said. “It would be our pleasure.”

John cleared his throat and smiled a little too brightly.

“That, ah, that does sound lovely!” he said. “Doesn’t it, Rosie? If you’re sure you can manage?”

“Looking after these two little ones in our seventies is a picnic compared to  _those_  two when we were youngsters,” Wanda said drily. “We would love to do it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, but felt Molly’s hand again, this time coasting slowly up to his thigh. She was already one step ahead of him, already imagining what they might be able to do with a two-hour break on Thursday afternoon.  His fiancée was a truly brilliant woman.

“It will give you a bit of time for those, ah, last-minute wedding plans,” Timothy Holmes said, giving Sherlock the most horrendously obvious stage-wink that he’d ever seen. Apparently, his father was very much enjoying his role as confidante in the whole baby-making endeavour.

“What am I missing?” Mycroft demanded.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sherlock said quickly. “Nothing that you’d understand, anyway. Although speaking of weddings, I take it you saw  _The Telegraph_  the other day?”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft said, helping himself to a generous portion of new potatoes. “A very touching little decree.”

“Boys,” their father said, in his best (but historically ineffective) warning tone.

“Let’s end this once and for all,” Wanda Holmes said with a sigh. “Your father and I happen to be enormously happy about your upcoming marriage, Sherlock, and we just thought it would be nice to mark this – let’s face it – very unexpected event in a nice, old-fashioned manner. We intended to do the same for Mycroft, although mysteriously the announcement didn’t make it onto the printed page.”

Sherlock saw his mother aim a pointed look at Mycroft as she said this.

“Yes, that  _is_  mysterious,” he said, with the barest raise of his eyebrows as he cut into his potatoes.

“You might have warned me,” Sherlock groused.

“Yes,” Mycroft mused. “I  _might_  have. And yet I didn’t.”

His mother leaned across the table.

“Molly, I do apologise if Timothy and I have caused any problems for the two of you,” she said, in a conciliatory tone Sherlock noted was absent during  _his_  conversation with his mother. “You must let us know if there’s anything we can do to help with the new arrangements.”

Molly, who was spooning something beige (pureed parsnip?) into William’s mouth, glanced a look at him before turning back to his mother.

“Really, don’t worry about it, either of you,” she replied. “It was a lovely thought, and I’m sure it’s not as bad as Sherlock is making out. Hm?”

Molly was elbowing him in the side, apparently giving him a cue. No - much as he loved Molly Hooper with all of his being, she was not going to make him concede any ground on this one.

“Sherlock?” she prompted.

Nope.

Then he made the mistake of looking at her, and was instantly met by the pair of deep brown eyes that could be deployed to great effect for an apparently endless variety of purposes. Eyes that reminded him that it was his turn to get up for the baby, that warned him when he was going too far with John or Greg, that told him she wanted him in the bedroom at his earliest convenience, that reassured him that he wasn’t alone anymore.

He took a deep breath.  _You are doing this for her, you are not capitulating!_

“Yes, I’m sure it will be fine,” he said, forcing the words out like he was filtering fish-bones through his teeth.

In response, he received a pat on the leg from Molly and an unnecessarily smug little smile from his mother. He could very clearly picture the looks on both John’s face (barely-suppressed smirk) and his brother’s (completely unsuppressed smirk), but he wasn’t going to give either of them the satisfaction.

But then…

“Da!”

The unexpected noise was accompanied by a very insistent bash on the highchair tray. Sherlock looked across at William and saw Molly do the same. Their son, who had previously been engrossed with his unappetising beige mush, was now clearly trying to convey something - and seemed very pleased with himself.

“Da-da-da!”

“Is he…?” John ventured, flicking a glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock then saw Molly’s face break into a beam.

“William, sweetheart, are you saying ‘daddy’?” she asked, pointing to Sherlock.

Sherlock felt a strange jolt in his chest, his heart suddenly beating a little faster.

“Is that Daddy? Can you say it again, William?” Molly continued. “Da-da?”

William continued to look very pleased with himself, smiling at all the faces that were now fixed on him, blissfully unaware that they were all waiting on his next move. Even Rosie looked a little curious, clearly picking up that this was something Big and Momentous that grown-ups felt was important.

“I believe we may be giving him performance anxiety,” Mycroft commented. “Perhaps if we-”

“Shut up, Mycroft!” Wanda Holmes said snippily.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and picked up his knife and fork again.

“Molly, he’s probably just discovered a new sound he can make,” Sherlock said, suddenly aware of needing to manage his own potential for disappointment. 

She shook her head, still smiling at William, who was grasping his spoon and giving her a gummy smile in return.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve just realised that he’s been making that sound on and off all week, but because you weren’t there at the time, I didn’t make the connection. William, who’s this?”

She pointed at Sherlock again.

Nothing.

Then…

“Da!”

This time, it was accompanied by a very determined jab of the spoon in Sherlock’s direction.

“Da-da!”

Molly turned to Sherlock and beamed.

“I think that one was pretty definitive,” she said, grinning.

Sherlock found himself just gaping first at her and then at William, who was definitely looking to him for approval. Sherlock had devoted numerous hours to reading about infant language acquisition, the sounds, the patterns, the repetition – but he hadn’t thought for a second about how it would feel to be on the receiving end; the emotional context knocking him sideways once again.

“What a clever boy!” Wanda Holmes declared, clapping her hands together and slightly startling her young grandson.

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock had leapt up from his seat and was rounding the table towards his son. Not caring about what anyone else thought at that moment, he unclipped William from his harness and swung him up into his arms. Surprised and delighted, William slapped a sticky, carrot-coated hand against Sherlock’s cheek, which Sherlock immediately snatched up and kissed. Immediately sensing a game was afoot, William continued slapping his father’s cheek, nose, chin and whatever else he could reach, all while shrieking with glee. Sherlock looked down at Molly, who was smiling at him with such warmth and tenderness (and no small measure of excitement) that he had no choice but to swoop down and plant a kiss on her lips, too, feeling her laugh against his mouth.

“Well, I think a clever little someone has definitely earned some chocolate pudding!” Sherlock heard his mother say.

“Yes, it has been rather a testing morning - thank you,” Mycroft replied. “Although I thought I might have a second slice of quiche first.”

“I said ‘little’, Myc,” Mrs Holmes added sardonically. “That should have been the clue.”

Sherlock immediately thought of a retort – actually a really good one – but for once it didn’t seem the time. Right now, at this moment, William John Bartholomew Hooper-Holmes needed and deserved the full attention of both of his parents.

His uncle would keep for later.

0000000000

Once lunch was finished, and William had been entreated to repeat his party trick several times, Molly took their son upstairs to try to settle him for a nap. John was trying to tire out Rosie in the garden, and Sherlock and Mycroft had to endure a good twenty minutes of staring dumbly at the conundrum that was Timothy Holmes’ broken guttering. Updates from Lestrade provided intermittent relief, but it was at the point where their father seemed to be suggesting that either he or Mycroft shin up the ladder to get a closer look at the leaf guard, his phone buzzed with a text alert – Molly’s text alert.

**Your old bedroom. Five minutes - Mx**

Sherlock immediately felt his whole body wake up from its parent-inflicted lethargy. He cleared his throat.

“Well, it, ah, seems Lestrade is struggling terribly with this really quite routine investigation,” he announced, trying to inject a note of annoyance into his voice. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to make a phone call.”

Quickly heading back to the house, behind him he could almost hear Mycroft’s eyebrow rocket upwards. Both were practiced experts at evading ‘family time’, and he would smell a rat. Checking that his mother really _was_ busy with her begonias (and not keeping her sons under surveillance), Sherlock ducked back into the house, making sure to tread carefully as he bounded up the creaky staircase (William had to be asleep somewhere). Unbuttoning his jacket as he reached the landing, he quickly glanced down the corridor in both directions before pushing down the handle of his childhood bedroom door.

And…this wasn’t _quite_ what he was expecting.

“You’re not naked!” he heard himself exclaim.

Molly, who was sitting at the end of the bed, folded her arms and gave a little frown.

“Never did doubt your observation skills,” she said.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but his brain – having assumed it may not be fully required for the next twenty minutes or so – was slow to get going.

“Oh, I see!” Molly continued, with an air of drama. “ _You_ thought that we were going to-”

“Have sex, yes – of course,” Sherlock said, looking to her expression for clues. “Is that…not what we’re doing?”

Molly patted the bedspread next to her, inviting him over. She pointedly looked at her watch.

“I would guess that we’ve got about fifteen minutes before everyone starts to wonder where we are,” she said. “So, if you’re able to tell me _absolutely everything_ about your plans to reorganise our entire wedding four weeks before the actual date, and then still feel we’ve got time for a shag, I am happy to go along with that schedule. Although, the shagging bit may well depend on what you end up telling me.”

Sherlock felt his shoulders (and yes, other things) sag as he sat down, but when he saw the patient but no-nonsense look on his fiancée’s face, he acknowledged that they probably did have things to talk about.

“Molly…”

“Sherlock,” Molly said, before he could even really get started. “I hope you know me well enough to know that I’m not going to turn Bridezilla over this, but we _did_ plan this wedding together, and we’ve got guests who are expecting to turn up at a particular time and place, and to be fed, and, well, you know – actually witness a marriage taking place.”

“All of those things are still going to happen, Molly,” he said, taking her hand. “I want to marry you more than anything I have ever desired in my entire life, which is why I want to be absolutely certain that it can happen when we want it to happen. _Where_ might be a slightly different matter…you weren’t particularly attached to the venue…were you?”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“I was, a little bit, yes,” she replied. “It’s kind of why, of the twenty or so venues that we looked at, I chose it. It was a nice size, and it wasn’t flashy or ostentatious, and I didn’t feel like we were being ripped off. It seemed, I dunno, a bit…different. It seemed very ‘us’, in a weird way.”

Sherlock felt his chest contract, partly because he knew Molly was right (it had been hands-down his favourite, too) – and partly because he realised she was already speaking in the past tense. She had already accepted it was no longer their wedding venue.

“We are, I think, going to have to consider some…revisions,” he said carefully, “but I promise I will handle it, Molly.”

She squeezed his hand.

“How about _we_ handle it?”

He smiled down at the quietly determined face that looked up at his – his lab partner, confidante, best friend, love of his life, mother of his (brilliant) child, future wife. His best achievements were the ones he made in partnership with her; things tended to go wrong when he thought he could go it alone. It applied to dismantling international criminal networks, but he thought it was probably applicable to the re-planning of weddings, too.

“We’ll make a start tomorrow,” he said, quietly. Still holding Molly’s hand, his thumb brushing over the ring on her finger, Sherlock brought his other hand up to cup her jaw and draw her in for a slow, kiss. He felt as though he was still learning how to do all this, how to be half of a whole, but he was lucky enough to have a very patient teacher.

“I very much approve of your ensemble today, Molly,” he said, hoarsely, when they broke apart.

“I know,” Molly grinned.

“How long do we have left, by your calculations?” he asked, raising a hopeful eyebrow.

“Not long enough,” she smirked.

“Really?” Sherlock asked. “Because I think I could probably work with any timeframe you throw at me right now.”

The words had barely left his lips before Molly had tackled him onto the bed.

00000000000

A disappointingly short while later, Sherlock found himself in the kitchen with his brother. Molly - following the ten minutes of hip-elevation they managed to negotiate - went out into the garden to try to help John tire out an apparently indefatigable Rosie, and he and Mycroft had been corralled into the kitchen by their mother to help with the dishes. His brother eyed him suspiciously (and when Sherlock caught his reflection in the kitchen window, he realised that he hadn’t managed to tame his post-sex hair as well as he thought).

“So, the young heir is gaining the power of speech,” Mycroft began, concentrating more on his tumbler of Talisker whisky than the mountain of dishes on the counter top.

“Hardly surprising, given his pedigree,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes,” Mycroft mused. “I did rather notice the resemblance – the attention-seeking, the look-at-me-aren’t-I-a-clever-boy.”

“I was talking about Molly,” Sherlock said. “You know, ‘Mycroft’ is probably quite a tricky name to master. Would you prefer Mikey, or would Fatty do just as well? After all, it’s very difficult to improve on the classics.”

“ _Boys_ ,” Wanda Holmes said, looming up behind them.

_Christ, how did she_ do _that?_

“Less bickering, more elbow grease,” she told them. With that, she swept the whisky tumbler out of Mycroft’s hand. “You can have it back when there’s a lovely stack of clean dishes on my draining board.”

“I’m drying,” Sherlock said.

“No, _I’m_ drying,” Mycroft retorted. “I always dry.”

“All the more reason for me to dry,” Sherlock smiled, holding the tea towel at arm’s length.

“Sherlock, you know very well that my hands suffer terribly from immersion in hot water, and if you don’t hand over that ridiculous Tartan tea-towel in the next ten seconds, I may just have to share with Mummy and Daddy the touching story of how your relationship with Molly began.”

Bastard. That was a low blow – yet he could tell that his brother wasn’t a hundred per cent committed to this threat.

“Mycroft, you said you would never tell them that,” Sherlock said carefully, fixing him with a weighty stare. “You said it wasn’t important.”

Mycroft sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll just tell them that the two of you defiled my summer house on the very day of my wedding.”

Sherlock gripped the tea towel tightly.

“Or was it more of an _attempt_ to defile it?” Mycroft continued. “I do hope my security system didn’t result in a case of _coitus interruptus_? I know the lights are a little severe, but you can never be too careful these days.”

Sherlock glared at his brother and held out the tea towel at arm’s length, letting it drop when Mycroft was about to take hold of it.

“Whoops!”

The washing up commenced in silence. If this was their mother’s way of encouraging her two sons to engage in brotherly conversation, it was not proving very effective. But Sherlock had sensed something right from the moment he had greeted his brother, and he hadn’t been able to shake it off.

“Are you going to tell me the real reason why you came?” he asked.

“Being embraced in the bosom of my family not enough?”

“Please don’t make me picture you being embraced by bosoms of any sort,” Sherlock replied. “And no, I don’t believe a word of it.”

There was a pause.

“It’s nothing concrete,” he began. “Not yet anyway, and it may well come to nothing.”

Sherlock straightened, his hands stilling in the water. His mind immediately flew to Molly and William, the instinct to protect them taking over.

“What, Mycroft?” he demanded.

“There has been suggestion that an old adversary of yours may be, shall we say, ‘active’ again. Particular circumstances have changed, allegiances have altered…deals have possibly been done,” Mycroft said. “Someone whom we believed had lost their liberty permanently may have been given…a reprieve.”

Sherlock lifted his hands from the water, bracing his arms on the counter top.

“This...tell me this isn’t about our sister, Mycroft.”

His brother lowered his glass.

“It is not. Eurus, as we know, is making progress, and has shown no signs of her previous psychosis. Gradual change, but still tangible nonetheless.”

“Then _what_? Now is not the time for your charming little riddles, Mycroft – tell me what you know.”

“I will tell you that I am doing everything that is within my power, brother mine,” came the reply. “And should the situation escalate, you will be the first to know. But whether you choose to believe me or not, my first concern is for your family, Sherlock, and by not sharing with you what is currently mere rumour and speculation, I am acting in your best interests – and also ensuring that you do not need to keep anything from Molly.”

“Don’t treat me like a child, Mycroft,” he warned.

“Your son and your wedding must be your priority,” his brother said firmly. “Allow this to be mine.”

There was a momentary standoff between the two of them, non-verbal, but each of them reading the other. His brother didn’t waver.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“You will tell me should anything change,” he said. It was not a question, and his brother didn’t treat it as such, responding only with a nod of understanding.

They returned to their duties, working alongside each other in silence for a few minutes.

“And you’ll also tell me what you know about my wretched stag do,” Sherlock added.

“Now that,” Mycroft replied, depositing his empty tumbler in the washing-up bowl. “I’m afraid, is beyond classified.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long chapter - it ended up being more eventful than I expected! :-)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a delay getting this chapter up, too - sorry! This time I'm blaming the combination of a stinking cold and being forced to train for a run (well, technically, I suppose I'm forcing myself) - most of this chapter was composed in my head as a distraction from miles of pain and boredom, but took a while to actually make it to the page!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Molly checked her phone as she made her way towards one of the back exits of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Nothing from Sherlock since the photo two hours ago, which she was taking as a good sign. The photo in question had been of her fiancé and son at the Natural History Museum, with William looking very underwhelmed by the stuffed lion they were posing beside. Molly couldn’t help but feel a pang at missing out, but reminded herself that she’d had a good morning, too – well, by morgue standards. Her good days were usually a result of someone else’s very, very bad (and last) day.

It had been nice to draw breath and escape from an intense few days of wedding planning – something which, four months after they’d finished planning their wedding, she hadn’t really expected to need to do. She didn’t blame Sherlock’s parents, she really didn’t - the gesture had been well-meant (and she  _had_ , after all, cut out and kept the newspaper clipping, much to Sherlock’s irritation) – but she did feel as though she hadn’t slept in three days.

As a result of all this, they now had an alternative wedding day plan – although Sherlock, adamant that he didn’t want to take any chances this time, was unwilling to share this plan with the guests. Instead, he assured Molly that he and John would contact everyone the day before with details of the new venue. In addition to this, Sherlock also insisted that he and John would also come up with a new Plan B, just to be on the safe side – she hadn’t been aware that there had even  _been_  a Plan B in the first place, and she had decided that the less she knew about what Sherlock was calling ‘The Decoy’, the better. At least, she reflected, there was no doubting his commitment.

A lot of it felt slightly like window dressing anyway – yes, she wanted an occasion and a dress for which she normally wouldn’t dream of paying the price-tag, but if someone had told her even two years ago that she was actually going to marry Sherlock, her first thought would not have been to quibble over the details.

When she emerged into the ambulance bay, she almost did a double-take at the sight of Mrs Hudson chatting away with one of the paramedics. At over six feet, he dwarfed their landlady, but it was clear who was dominating the conversation.

“Martha…?” Molly asked, taking a couple of steps closer.

“Oh, hello, dear!” Mrs Hudson replied, almost as though she was surprised to see her. “There you are. I was going to come in and find you, but I didn’t suppose they let all and sundry just mill around the mortuary. Antonio has just finished his shift and has been keeping me company, which has been lovely.”

Molly said a polite hello. Trust Mrs Hudson to zero in on a six-foot-five paramedic who looked like he played rugby on his days off.

“Her fiancé once jumped off the roof here, you know,” Mrs Hudson said to the bewildered paramedic. “Where was it, Molly? Just over there, wasn’t it?”

Molly frowned, trying to convey a look of apology to the man in front of her without offending her friend.

“Um, yes,” she said.

“I…hope he was okay?” the paramedic asked.

“Of course he was!” Mrs Hudson laughed. “He’s Sherlock Holmes!”

“Oh!” the man said. “Right. I see.”

Although it didn’t look as though he did. Clearly, Antonio hadn’t been based at Bart’s for very long.

“I say ‘of course’,” Mrs Hudson continued. “It probably wouldn’t have been fine if it hadn’t been for Molly.”

“Who?”

Molly raised her hand, helplessly.

“They planned the whole thing together,” Mrs Hudson said. “Quite romantic when you think about it. Although he’s such a silly boy that he didn’t realise that he was in love with her until about a-year-and-a-half ago, and he didn’t do anything about it until he thought she was going to die, but now they’ve got a gorgeous little boy together and they’re getting married in three weeks. It’s so lovely.”

Molly met Antonio’s bemused look with an apologetic one of her own.

“Erm…congratulations,” the paramedic offered.

“Thanks!” Molly said brightly. She almost felt the need to explain that the previous account was in fact true, and that Mrs Hudson hadn’t wandered off from her minders.

“You should look him up,” Mrs Hudson said, patting the man’s arm. “Sherlock Holmes. He’s quite famous. Although, actually, on second thoughts, the Google searches might not be very flattering.”

When the paramedic had finally managed to politely extract himself from the conversation, Molly got around to asking Mrs Hudson what she was doing there – it was, after all, miles away from Baker Street and her landlady’s usual stomping ground. Mrs Hudson explained that she had an appointment.

“Here?” Molly asked, puzzled. “Not St Mary’s?”

“I like it here,” Mrs Hudson replied. “My little godson was born here. He’s fine, by the way – Sherlock managed to get to him before he properly got hold of that harpoon.”

“H-harpoon?”

Weirdly, she hadn’t received a photo of  _that_  from Sherlock (and that harpoon was  _supposed_  to be in the attic, along with the antique scimitar, the flintlock pistol and the revolver).

 “Oh, it’s fine!” Mrs Hudson said, with a wave of the hand. “It’s very difficult to completely baby-proof a home.”

_Not our home, anyway_ , thought Molly. Words would need to be had.

“So…are you okay?” she ventured, looking for signs that Mrs Hudson might be concerned about her appointment. It seemed possible that the older woman didn’t want to be on her own for whatever it was.

“Oh, I’m fine, dear, yes,” she replied. “Just a routine thing, you know – happens more and more at my age; they think we’re all falling apart. Although, I don’t think Sherlock and William will be back yet, so if you don’t have to rush off home, we could get ourselves a nice cup of tea? I remember there being a nice little café close by – shall I lead the way?”

Deciding that there was no arguing with the force of nature that was Martha Hudson, Molly shouldered her bag and followed her landlady away from the ambulance bay and the main site.

“How does it all feel, then, being back at work?” Mrs Hudson asked, as she bustled along.

“Well, I’m not back full-time yet, but, yeah, it’s great,” Molly replied. “Work actually feels like kind of a rest. At least the cadavers don’t crawl off their trolleys and try to get into the cupboards or put unsuitable things in their mouths.”

She laughed at her own joke, which she could tell Mrs Hudson was a little nonplussed by.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be back long, if Sherlock gets his way,” she replied, with a pointed look. Seeing Molly’s confusion, she added, “He’s so set on having another baby, isn’t he? It’s quite sweet, when you think about it.”

_Sweet and obsessive_ , Molly thought. It was a few seconds later that another thought struck her…

“Did…did he talk to you about it?”

That certainly didn’t sound like Sherlock; his policy was usually to keep Mrs Hudson in the dark as much as possible – her network was vaster and more labyrinthine even than his, and nothing stayed private for long.

“Oh no, I heard it from John,” Mrs Hudson replied, as though that was obvious. “So nice to know that the boys talk to each other about these things, isn’t it?”

Molly agreed, cautiously. She made a mental note to be careful what she shared with John in the future, too – at the moment, it felt as though Sherlock may as well set up a Twitter feed, issuing regular updates on their attempts to get pregnant.

She continued to follow Mrs Hudson, although they seemed to be going away from the main hospital site now, and were walking across the quad in the direction of the Pathology Museum. Molly was about to query whether her friend knew where they were going when Mrs Hudson piped up again.

“Of course, I’ll be sorry to see you all go,” she said. “It’ll be the end of an era.”

“Go where?” Molly asked.

“Well, there won’t really be enough space in that flat when you’ve got two little ones running around the place,” Mrs Hudson elaborated. “You’ll need a proper family home. And between you and me-” – she switched to a stage whisper – “I’m not convinced that Sherlock will want to stop at two, are you?”

Again, Molly opened her mouth to speak, to say something along the lines of  _well, that’s something Sherlock might want to discuss with me_ , when she realised that Mrs Hudson was actually leading her towards the Pathology Museum.

“Um, you know there isn’t a coffee shop in there?” Molly asked. “It’s not really that kind of museum.”

There wasn’t even a vending machine in sight.

“I thought we’d just pop in for a second,” Mrs Hudson replied. “Sherlock’s mentioned it a few times, so I thought I might see what the fuss is about.”

She was about to point out that the museum might not even be open when Mrs Hudson opened the door – and Molly immediately understood.

There in front of her, sitting around a table, were Meena and half a dozen other friends from the hospital, surrounded by an array of craft materials, equipment and bottles of what looked like Prosecco. Meena leapt up and skirted around the table to come and engulf her in a hug. Over Meena’s shoulder, Molly could see Mrs Hudson beaming, clearly delighted with having pulled off such subterfuge.

“Welcome to your hen do, Molls!” Meena grinned. “Surprised?”

Molly smiled at all of the faces watching her.

“Um, yes – completely!” she replied, haltingly. “This is amazing, thank you!”

She put down her bag.

“Although…why are we here?”

“Ah,” Meena smiled, leading her by the arm to the table. “Apparently, we’re all going to learn how to be taxidermists. Well, some of us are – some of us are just going to chat, drink Prosecco and eat our way through a box of Celebrations because…well, to be fair it’s a bit weird. And gross.”

“No, it’s great!” Molly beamed, taking off her coat.

“Good,” Meena replied. “Because if it turned out you hated it, I was going to blame Detective Sexy – it was his suggestion.”

Molly felt a rush of warmth to her chest. She’d probably only mentioned to Sherlock once that she was keen to do another taxidermy class, but he had obviously filed away that information until it became useful. And this was perfect.

“This is just the first bit,” Meena continued. “You’ve got a pass out for the night, Molls. Hope you’ve got your dancing shoes?”

Molly glanced down at the sensible, comfortable brogues she wore for work.

“I meant figuratively,” Meena grinned. “We can borrow some. In fact, we can borrow whole outfits.”

Molly looked at her quizzically, and with a slight hesitance, too. She hadn’t been clubbing for about five years, and to be honest – though it was a nice gesture – the thought of it just made her feel exhausted and about eighty years old. Although, she reflected, the eighty-year old sitting next to her would probably be more than up for it.

“Don’t look so terrified, Molls,” Meena said, offering her an open box of chocolates. “You’re going to love it.”

And she did. The next three hours were spent working on turning a deceased squirrel into a deceased squirrel wearing a tweed jacket and cravat. The finished article did, she thought, bear a passing resemblance to Sherlock’s brother, which was an unexpected bonus. Between them, they produced a small coterie of mice, rats and other small creatures – two of which were dressed (rather approximately, admittedly) as a bride and groom.

As they were getting ready for their next destination, Molly slipped her phone out of her bag.

**Thank you – Mxxx**

A few moments later, the response came through.

**You are very welcome. Save a dance for me – SHx**

Molly smiled.

**I might – Mxxx**

She paused, and then typed again.

**Btw, I know about the harpoon…**

As they were waiting to get into the taxi outside the museum, the text alert buzzed again.

**Only surface lacerations. And me, not him – SHx**

Molly felt her heart jump into her throat, just as a follow-up message came through.

**Not funny? – SHx**

Bastard!

**When I get home, the harpoon will be the least of your worries – Mxxx**

There was a response almost immediately.

**Sounds delightful – I shall look forward to it - SHx**

She didn’t have time to compose a witty riposte before she was being hustled towards the open door of a cab by Meena. All was revealed at the end of a short ride, when they arrived at a warehouse-like building; Molly was momentarily frozen with horror by the thought that Meena was about to make them all do pole-dancing, but the sound of gentle Big Band music emanating from inside soon snuffed that fear.

“Afternoon tea first,” Meena explained. “Then we get dressed up and Martha’s going to show us all how to Lindy Hop.”

“Oh, I don’t want to throw my hip out,” Mrs Hudson said, as they were ushered into a vast room decked out like a 1940s dancehall, complete with stage and cabaret-style seating. “Although perhaps I could be persuaded.”

Molly noticed that her friend’s gaze had settled on the dancers in the middle of the room. Most of the men were young and athletic, and all of them were decked out in various combinations of vintage suits, waistcoats and braces. Yep, she could see that Mrs Hudson could probably be persuaded.

00000000

When she set out for Bart’s that morning, Molly hadn’t expected – fifteen hours later – to be sitting in the back of a cab wearing a plastic vintage tiara, with a stuffed squirrel on one knee, a gift bag from Agent Provocateur on the other, and a slightly tipsy Mrs Hudson beside her, regaling her with stories of her youthful dancehall antics (which also overlapped with the exotic dancing). One or two of anecdotes had caused the cabbie to turn his head.

“Oh, shut the partition if you don’t like it!” Mrs Hudson had laughed, clinging onto Molly’s elbow.

It had been an amazing afternoon and evening, and one that had reminded Molly that although her circle of friends was small, it was all that she needed. Well, almost all.

“I miss her, too, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, patting Molly’s knee.

Molly nodded, glancing out of the window at the passing neon of London.

“She should have been here,” Molly replied, quietly.

“I know. But if she was here, perhaps your young man wouldn’t be. And then neither would your wonderful little boy.”

She really did owe her absent friend more than she could ever truly comprehend. Sherlock, she knew, felt that acutely, too.

Mrs Hudson shuffled across the bench seat and linked their arms again, giving Molly a squeeze.

“How about the two of us have a quiet little drink to Mary on the morning of your wedding?” she said softly. “We’ll say our thankyous, dry our eyes, and then you, Dr Molly Hooper, are going to bloody well enjoy your wedding day. Goodness knows you’ve waited long enough for it, and I won’t have either you or Sherlock feeling guilty or having regrets – I just won’t have it. Mary wouldn’t have wanted that, would she? And don’t worry about John either – Greg and I will keep an eye on him.”

Molly nodded, dabbing at the corner of her eye, and managing a smile.

“No tears tonight, love,” Mrs Hudson continued. “You don’t want Sherlock to think you’re having second thoughts. You know how easily he panics.”

Molly snorted out a giggle.

The cab was pulling into Baker Street now, and as Molly prepared to lever herself, her landlady and all of their collective possessions out of the car, something odd caught her eye. Well, not odd exactly, but a little…off.

“Martha,” she said, once they were both on the pavement. “Does Mr Chatterjee have a new car?”

Mrs Hudson frowned slightly.

“I don’t think so,” she replied, as they headed for the door of 221. “Although I probably wouldn’t know. That man still hasn’t confirmed whether he’s coming with me to your wedding, so we’re not exactly on the best of terms. Why, dear?”

Molly glanced back down the road, hoping she was worrying unnecessarily.

“Oh, probably nothing,” she replied. “Just…that car has been parked outside on and off for the past few days. The black one over there. Not always in the same place, but there’s always someone in it – although you can’t really see them properly because of the tinted windows.”

Mrs Hudson let them both into the house.

“Probably something to do with that brother of Sherlock’s,” she said, switching to a whisper as they entered the hall. “Sherlock hates the extra security, but I think he means well. Although I suppose it might be one of those damn reporters again – if it is one of them, I’ve got half a mind to come back out here with the contents of Toby’s litter tray.”

Molly smiled. She still wasn’t used to the increased scrutiny that life with Sherlock had brought, and hated how easily the feelings of paranoia could strike – especially since William arrived. Although logic told her that if anyone was going to notice something different in their surroundings, it would be Sherlock – and there was some reassurance in that thought.

“I’d better have an Alka-Seltzer and get my head down,” Mrs Hudson said, digging out her keys. “I’ve got Rosie all day tomorrow, and toddlers don’t tend to be very understanding when it comes to delicate heads.”    

Molly stepped forward to give Mrs Hudson a hug.

“Thank you so much for today,” she whispered. “It was perfect.”

“It  _was_  lovely, wasn’t it?” Mrs Hudson said with a gleam. “And probably a lot more civilised than what the boys have in mind for Sherlock. I should think he’ll be lucky to come home with all of his clothes.”

They said their goodnights, and Molly quietly made her way up the stairs. As she neared the top, she could hear the soft strains of violin music, which was quite normal for this time of night – usually a sign that Sherlock was working something through in his head, or unwinding after a complicated case. When she opened the door, Sherlock was standing at the window with his back to her, wearing his blue dressing gown over his shirt and trousers – it was one of the many sights she knew she would never grow tired of.

“You have gimmicky plastic headwear, expensive lingerie and a dead squirrel,” he said, without turning around. “So it seems likely the night was a success?”

As she moved towards him, he turned and set down his violin and bow, and his face broke into a smile. Molly hooked a hand over his shoulder and pulled him down for a slow and meditative kiss, taking in the scent of his cologne and something that smelt like the Petit Filous strawberry yoghurts that William loved so much. Dinnertime had clearly been an eventful affair again.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For whatever part you played in it.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her closer.

“You do know this makes it official, hm?” he said. “Now you’ve had the hen do, there’s absolutely no backing out. I’ve consulted national statutes on this point.”

Molly giggled.

“I think you’re safe.”

Sherlock smiled, and Molly felt his fingers caressing her back.

“Good,” he said. “Because I was afraid that otherwise I may not benefit from an audience with your new…undergarments.”

Molly bit down on a smile.

“Yeah, but you have to get through a stag do first, remember? Pretty sure they’re a legal requirement, too.”

At this, a self-satisfied expression appeared on Sherlock’s face.

“I am not concerned,” he told her. “John has informed me that so long as I am familiar with the cases we have worked together, my dignity and person will remain intact. Given that each one has been rigorously catalogued and committed to my Mind Palace, I am confident that we can have a perfectly pleasant evening, with no need for drunkenness, nudity or any of the other customs associated with this ridiculous ritual.”

Molly gave him an indulgent smile.  _Oh, her poor, naïve fiancé._

“I’m going to go up and see Will,” she told him.

“Checked on him fifteen minutes ago,” Sherlock replied. “Snoring like John after five pints of lager. You  _are_  certain he’s mine, Molly?”

She swatted him on the arm and he gave her one of his beautiful, crinkle-eyed smiles.  

“Have I sabotaged my hopes of a dance?” he asked. “Only…it occurred to me after I asked you that we’ve never really…after all this time…you and I have never danced together.”

He was right. She’d never given it any thought, but it was true. In the lead-up to John and Mary’s wedding, she’d had fantasies about having the chance to dance with Sherlock, but even if he had stuck around longer than he did that night, it would hardly have been appropriate – and wouldn’t have changed the fact that she was there with the wrong man.

“We could have danced at Mycroft’s wedding,” Molly pointed out, as Sherlock moved one of his hands from her waist to take hers.

“As I recall, the evening was so deathly tedious that we decided that our time was better spent elsewhere…”

He was talking, of course, about their ill-fated summerhouse tryst. That had been very much Sherlock’s idea, but it was true that very little dancing had been going on anyway, with most of the (mainly ancient) guests stuck to the walls as though they were flypaper.

“Well, I suppose if we’re going to be expected to dance at our wedding, we should probably practice,” Molly conceded, smiling. She put her arm around Sherlock’s waist, and he gave her a funny look.

“Any possibility that you might let me lead, Molly?” he asked, glancing at her arm. “As you know, I’m perfectly secure in my masculinity, but it might look a little strange in front of our guests.”

Giggling, she let him reposition her hand before taking hers again. They started to move together, and yep, waltzing was yet another thing in which Sherlock Holmes apparently excelled - even without music, he moved expertly. A bit like his taste in music, Molly imagined that he would consider any style of dance devised after about 1860 to be unworthy of his time and attention. It was almost worth playing ‘The Macarena’ at their wedding, just to see how he’d react.  

Momentarily distracted by this, Molly suddenly realised that they were waltzing in one very definite direction.

“Er, Sherlock?” she said, watching his composed expression with amusement. “What are you doing?”

“Leading.”

Molly pursed her lips at him.

“Sherlock, is it possible that you are leading me in a waltz towards the bedroom?”

He arched an eyebrow, but continued to keep his gaze somewhere beyond her.

“Well, that would be quite an efficiency,” he replied. “Practice leading to…well, practice of a different kind.”

Molly snorted.

“Um, yeah, I’m not sure we actually need more practice at _that_ ,” she giggled.

Sherlock expertly waltzed them through the open door and into the hallway, deftly sidestepping William’s folded pushchair and a basket of unfolded laundry.

“There’s a theory that it takes ten thousand hours of practice to become an expert at something,” he replied, pausing the give the bedroom door a gentle kick to open. “So it could be argued that we have some catching up to do.”

Still laughing, Molly allowed herself to be waltzed into the bedroom – she didn’t believe that ten thousand hours theory for a minute, but in this situation, she was happy to let it work in her favour.


	7. Chapter 7

He had been looking forward to an afternoon of getting things done. Since eight-thirty that morning, he had been behind his desk at the clinic, listening to medical concerns that ranged from a three year-old’s sudden deafness (Lego brick in the ear canal) through to impetigo (he had been suffering phantom itching ever since) and a man who insisted that there was “probably nothing wrong” while sporting a testicular lump the size that was more tennis ball than golf ball.

But it was only a half-day, which was a good thing considering the mounting to-do list ahead of him. His plans for Sherlock’s stag do were still only half-conceived, his Best Man’s speech was currently a list of scrawled bullet points on his prescription pad, and at this rate, Rosie was going to be attending her godparents’ wedding in her Peppa Pig onesie. That was before he even thought about the gargantuan laundry pile in the corner of his bedroom, the empty fridge, and the huge sheaf of paperwork to complete for Rosie’s childminder.

Rosie wouldn’t be back from said childminder until after five, and not only that, he was fairly sure he had the  _ whole _ of 221 to himself – Molly and Mrs Hudson had taken William into the city for the day, and Sherlock was over at Scotland Yard (or so John assumed, given the regular, unsolicited case updates he had received that morning while trying to be an attentive GP).

So it was not entirely to plan when John opened the front door and was greeted by the sight of two pairs of feet in the doorway to 221B, along with the unmistakable sound of Sherlock issuing instructions. Was it possible that he could close the front door and get to his own flat undetected?

“John!”

Apparently not.

Although he had to admit to being curious as to who the other pair of feet belonged to, and what his friend was currently holding forth about.

“Excellent, you’re home!” Sherlock continued, calling down the stairs.

With a small sigh of resignation, John dropped his rucksack by the stairs and trudged up the stairs. The other pair of feet, it turned out, were attached to the gaunt, slightly unkempt figure of Bill Wiggins. When they set eyes on each other, the younger man immediately flinched, and looked nervously between John and Sherlock.

“’Ere, Shezza, you didn’t call ‘im in to make sure I do what I’m told, didya?”

John was amazed that a man who must have been threatened by hundreds of angry users and dealers, in various states of inebriation, could still feel threatened by a doctor who once sprained his arm.

“Alas, John’s arrival is just fortunate happenstance,” Sherlock replied.

Right away, Wiggins visibly relaxed.

“’E’s been on a date,” he said to Sherlock, with a nod towards John.

John immediately felt his pulse begin to pick up and his temperature rise just slightly. He saw Sherlock turn his attention towards him, looking at him for a moment with narrowed eyes.

“Mmm, very good, Billy,” Sherlock replied, nodding.

“See, there were three obvious signs, what I spotted right away,” Wiggins continued, unprompted. “First-”

“Another time,” Sherlock cut in, and John felt himself exhale with a small measure of relief. “If you remember, Wiggins, you were about to do as you were told and go away.”

“I know, but, Shezza-”

Wiggins’ attempted reply was muffled by a stack of clothes that Sherlock dumped unceremoniously in his arms, including, John noticed, Sherlock’s very own Belstaff coat.

“You’re clear on the plan, yes?” Sherlock asked. “I should certainly hope so anyway; we’ve been through it enough times.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to come to the real one,” Wiggins moaned, poking his head around the pile of clothing. “Your missus even said it would be okay.”

“Molly is not my ‘missus’ yet,” Sherlock replied sharply. “That’s rather the point.”

“Yeah,” Wiggins said, catching John’s eye. “I know that, but, I mean, she’s always been yer missus.”

John glanced away to prevent a smile from breaking out.

“Not  _ always _ ,” Sherlock sighed, tersely. “And much as I would dearly love you to be part of our special day, Wiggins, it is imperative that I employ your skills elsewhere. We will both be in your debt.”

“You gonna name your next kid after me?” the young chemist enquired.

“Well, given that we already have one child named William, I think that might be a little moronic, don’t you?” Sherlock replied, ushering Wiggins into the hallway.

“My middle name’s Darren,” Wiggins offered.

“We’ll save you some cake,” Sherlock replied quickly. “Now scatter to the winds.”

“You what?”

“Get lost.”

“Oh,” Wiggins replied. “Charming.”

He slunk past John with his armful of clothes, slinking down the stairs and eventually out of the front door. Sherlock immediately turned his attention back to his open laptop, leaving John standing, a little perplexed, in the doorway.

“What…was that about?” he queried.

“Decoy wedding,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

John allowed the smile to spread across his face this time.

“Don’t tell me that Bill Wiggins is playing you in this performance?”

“He’s got the height,” Sherlock replied. “Although I’m not sure he’ll have time to grow his hair, so some sort of…wig may be required.”

“Dare I ask who’s playing the rest of us?” John enquired. He was willing to bet that in his case it would be someone taller.

“That’s Wiggins’ job,” Sherlock replied. “I don’t have time to play casting director.”

“And you actually think this is going to work?”

Sherlock was now shutting his laptop, checking his phone and collecting his jacket from the back of the chair.

“I managed to fake my own death, didn’t I?” he said, buttoning his suit jacket.

“Yeah, we don’t like to talk about that, remember?” John replied. “It’s one of my triggers.”

It really was. His therapist had helped him identify a list, at least ninety per cent of which were related in some way to the man in front of him now.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, as if to say  _ anyway, you get my point _ .

“Are you…going somewhere?” John asked.

“Case for Lestrade,” Sherlock replied distractedly, apparently looking for something.

“I thought that’s what you were doing this morning?” John asked, frowning. “And that it was only a four?”

“So you  _ were _ reading your texts!” Sherlock said with a note of triumph, snatching up a pen from the kitchen counter. “Why didn’t you respond?”

“Er, because I was working,” John replied, watching with puzzlement as Sherlock shuffled papers around on his desk. “Doing the job that you know, I actually get paid for, as opposed to the one where…are you writing your girlfriend a  _ love-note _ ?”

He had noticed Sherlock suddenly looking a little self-conscious, and now he saw Sherlock’s expression twist into a scowl, even while his pen was poised over the piece of scrap paper.

“I am merely informing Molly that I may be home later than planned,” he replied, his abrupt tone betrayed by the blush that appeared to be creeping up his neck.

“You could just text her,” John suggested, grinning. “You text everyone else. You sent your own mother a text instead of a birthday card. You text Mrs Hudson when you want a cup of tea.”

“Molly likes a note,” Sherlock said flatly, folding the piece of paper before John could catch sight of what he’d written.

“Does she leave you notes, too?” John probed, knowing he was pushing his luck, but enjoying this too much. He was willing to bet that Sherlock had kept and catalogued every single note that Molly had ever written to him.

“Lestrade’s waiting,” Sherlock said, moving past him towards the door. “Best get there before Anderson contaminates the crime scene. Come on.”

So he was going, too? So much for a productive afternoon. John was starting to wonder whether Sherlock was doing this on purpose, intentionally depriving him of the time needed to organise a stag night and write an entertaining speech.

Less than two minutes later they were in a taxi, heading north to Camden. What had started off as a four now apparently had the potential to be even or eight, thanks to the discovery of eight forged passports, a bank account in the Cayman Islands, and the fact that the recent murder victim had supposedly been buried in Highgate Cemetery in 2003.

“So,” John began, watching Sherlock scroll intently through his phone. “How’s the, ah, baby-making coming along. Molly still on board with it?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he fixed his gaze somewhere outside the cab window.

“Let’s just say that steak and tuna, in all of its forms – fresh, tinned, tartare, with mayonnaise and without - are off the menu at the wedding,” he replied, with an expression of mild nausea. “Anyway, according to test results, there’s nothing wrong with my-”

John caught his eye with a warning glance towards the cabbie.

“Output,” Sherlock said.

“What tests?” John asked. “Don’t tell me you conned the lab at Bart’s into testing your…output?”

Sherlock screwed up his nose at this, but John could tell he was probably now wondering why he didn’t think of that himself.

“Nope. Did it at home,” he replied.

“With what?!” John found himself asking. He made a mental note to start carrying hand sanitizer with him whenever he paid a visit to 221B, and not to accept anything out of a mug or glass for a while.

“Thirty quid kit from Boots,” Sherlock said. “It really is amazing what you can do yourself these days. Anyway, dead end.”

“Well, that’s a good thing…isn’t it?” John asked, cautiously. “I mean, I still think you’re worrying about nothing given that it hasn’t even been three months, but at least it eliminates one possibility.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied, clearly not cheered by this thought.  

They travelled in silence for a few moments, John watching as the taxi took him further and further away from his swelling list of domestic and wedding-related chores. He sensed that Sherlock was now looking at him, rather than out of the window – his friend’s eyes had their own particular way of searing into the back of his head.

“Was Wiggins right?”

John whirled around, swallowed. He had hoped the earlier conversation had now been forgotten, assumed it would be, given that it wasn’t the sort of thing that Sherlock usually considered worth retaining.

“Sorry, what?” he replied, knowing that he was stalling pointlessly.

“His deductions,” Sherlock continued. “Had you been on a date? Because Molly asked me, should the conversation ever arise – and despite me telling her in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t be raising it – to assure you that you should feel free to bring a date to the wedding, if you wish to do so.”

John cleared this throat, again trying to buy time. It couldn’t help but feel strange that his friends had discussed him like this, had perhaps talked about whether or when he would feel able to move on from Mary. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed, but something still rankled despite himself.  

“Thank you. But I won’t be bringing a date to the wedding, Sherlock,” he replied flatly, keeping his eyes on the back of the driver’s seat, even while he felt Sherlock’s eyes still on him.

“But you  _ have _ been on a date?”

John sighed. Sherlock had all the tact of a five year-old wanting know when it’s time to leave for the zoo.

“No,” he replied, instinctively. “Yes…I mean, sort of. I don’t know – it was lunch. Just…lunch.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, allowing silence to then fill the cab again for a few moments before adding. 

“Was it…a nice lunch?”

John folded his arms, and took a deep breath to prevent what he ideally wanted to say from escaping.

“Yes, it was a nice lunch,” he replied. “Nice enough. Caesar salad, if you must know.”

“Is Caesar salad…good?” Sherlock asked, his tone a little puzzled.

“Sherlock, it isn’t code,” John said, impatiently. “I ate a Caesar salad, that’s literally it - it doesn’t in any way represent my views on the person I had lunch with or the outcome of the d-.”

He caught himself.

“Social occasion,” he said instead.

“I see,” Sherlock replied slowly. It sounded as though he probably didn’t. John had to remind himself that prior to his relationship with Molly, Sherlock had probably never been on a date in his life (discounting anything cooked up to manipulate or gain information from another individual)  – and that his first proper date with Molly took place several weeks  _ after _ he’d already got her pregnant.

“Might there be a further social occasion?” Sherlock asked.

John threw up his hands.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Possibly. It’s not high on the agenda at the moment, what with your wedding taking up what little time I have left over from working and looking after my two-year old daughter.”

Perhaps that had come out a little harsher than planned, but he really wasn’t ready to talk about it – now or possibly ever. He wasn’t about to tell Sherlock that, actually,  _ this _ was the ‘further social occasion’, that he’d already been out with her once before, and that he still hadn’t decided whether he wanted to pursue it any further. He’d had a nice time, but then as soon as he was back in the clinic, he was surrounded by memories of Mary and confronted by the framed photos of Rosie on his desk, and he found himself composing a text to his date (and yes, it  _ was _ a date) to say he’d rather just remain friends. Which, translated to real life, probably meant ‘never see each other again’. He hadn’t sent the text in the end – just left it in his draft folder, because, well, he’d surely need it sooner or later.

“Well, if the wedding is an issue,” Sherlock began. “Please be assured that I won’t feel too bereft if you don’t find the time to organise any kind of…pre-wedding social occasion. You know, the sort that usually involves just men. And beer.”

John found himself smirking.

“You mean the stag do,” he replied. “Which there is definitely going to be, by the way.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to sigh.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to give me a clue?” he asked.

“A  _ clue _ ? The world’s only consulting detective wants  _ me _ to give  _ him _ a clue?” John smiled. “This is definitely going in the blog.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Of course I could deduce what you have planned if I felt that it was a subject matter worthy of my time and the mental exertion involved,” he replied. “And if I didn’t have a fake wedding, a stand-in wedding and a real wedding to keep on top of.”

“I’ve told you all you need to know for now,” John said. “If you think you know more about our past investigations than Greg and I do, then you’ll be fine.”

The finer details were still to be worked out, but that was basically the truth. Although the devil, as everyone knows, is in that detail – so yeah, Sherlock was probably right to be anxious. That said, John knew he would get it in the neck from the women of 221A and 221B if any permanent harm befell the bridegroom.

“Just out of interest,” John added. “If you  _ were _ ever to get ‘Property of Molly Hooper’ tattooed on your body, do you have a preference for where?”

Sherlock looked at him darkly, and was clearly about to issue a retort when they both heard a sound that stopped them short.

A text alert.

A very distinctive, very arresting text alert.  

John fleetingly caught sight of the cabbie’s reaction in the rearview mirror, and when he looked across at his friend, Sherlock looked physically sick.

“Was that-?” John started.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, visibly swallowing hard.

“But I thought…” John said, trying to organise his thoughts. “Sherlock, don’t tell me you’ve been…that all this time, you didn’t stop texting her back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the abrupt ending (or am I?!). Had to find a cut-off point before Mycroft arrived and the word count got out of hand!
> 
> Must acknowledge a debt here to darnedchild's excellent one-shot, 'Shezza's Missus' - it definitely influenced my portrayal of Billy Wiggins :-)


	8. Chapter 8

At John’s words, Sherlock’s face whipped around in fury, the vehemence in his expression taking John by surprise.

“Of course I stopped texting back!” he thundered.

“When?” John countered.

“After my birthday. Not the last one, the one before,” Sherlock said. “Before Sherrinford…before Molly. Around the time, if I recall correctly, that  _you_  were encouraging me to pursue some sort of relationship with…  _her_.”

And yes, John accepted that this notion now seemed as laughable as Sherlock’s emphasis on the word ‘relationship’ suggested. His own grief and sense of impermanence back then had clouded his view of everything, including the reality that his friend’s perfect other was already right there in his life.

“And you haven’t heard from her since?” he asked.

Sherlock dragged a hand through his hair; he was more visibly shaken than John had seen in a long time.

“ _Yes_ , I heard from her after Sherrinford,” he said, through gritted teeth. “She saw it all on the news from wherever the hell she is – or was - and she sent me a message claiming she was relieved that I was alive. But I didn’t reply – and after…well, when everything changed with Molly, I even went so far as to change my phone number. I didn’t want there to be any room for doubt.”

John nodded; he believed the words he was hearing. He knew, too, that now Sherlock was in a committed relationship of his own, he would better understand that it was never ‘just texting’.

“So…what does she want?” John asked, nodding towards the phone that Sherlock held in the palm of his hand as though it was an alien presence.

Sherlock blinked, unlocked his phone screen. After a second, he held the screen up to John.

**You’re a hard man to contact, Mr Holmes. I believe both of our situations have changed significantly since our last communication. Still, I haven’t forgotten Karachi.**

“What about Karachi?” John asked, feeling as though he was missing a vital piece of information. Again.

“Driver!” Sherlock yelled. “Turn around when convenient. We’re going to The Mall.”

“Sherlock?”

“My dear brother has some explaining to do,” Sherlock snarled, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

Now John felt like his brain was being pulled in eight different directions. One thing at a time…

“Sherlock – Karachi?” he prompted.

Sherlock blinked swiftly, took a quick breath.

“Two weeks after Irene Adler disappeared from London, I discovered that she had been captured by terrorists in Karachi and sentenced to death,” he said. “I travelled to Islamabad, tracked her down and saved her life.”

John heard himself exhale. Why the hell didn’t he expect something like this?

“Christ, Sherlock! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You knew she was alive,” Sherlock glared.

“Er, yeah, years after the fact,” John replied. “But this was a detail you mysteriously omitted to tell me. Does Molly know?”

The resulting silence spoke volumes.

“Jesus, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "It’s not that I deliberately didn't  _tell_  Molly - it wasn’t relevant. I told her about Magnussen because she needed to know the worst of what I've done before she decided whether she really wanted to commit to a life with me. I told her about Mary because she's Rosie's godmother, and she needed to understand Mary's reasons. But I never intended to have any contact with Irene Adler ever again, and she had – and has - no bearing on my feelings for and relationship with Molly. If Molly had asked, of course I would have told her everything, but why would she?"

"Because The Woman is the closest thing you've got to an ex-girlfriend."

Sherlock glared at him again, with an look that expressed just how derisory he thought that statement to be – but he didn't reply. This already had all the makings of a storm; whatever she was up to, Irene Adler, John knew, didn't like to lose.

Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up outside the white-columned grandeur of the Diogenes Club. Thrusting a fistful of notes at the driver, Sherlock was immediately flying up the steps to the entrance while John was still climbing out of the car.

"Wait, Sherlock," John said, catching his breath. "What has any of this got to do with your brother?"

"When has anything  _not_  had something to do with my brother?" Sherlock spat back, leading the way to the desk in the wood-paneled lobby.

The white-haired concierge looked alarmed at their approach, getting to his feet and drawing himself up to his full height. John suspected that this wasn’t the first time that he had encountered the younger Holmes brother in pursuit of the elder. Quickly, the man pointed to the sign at the desk that stated ‘The proprietors of this establishment request absolute silence at all times. Your co-operation is appreciated’.

“Is the British Government in his usual spot?” Sherlock demanded.

Again, the concierge gestured to the sign.

“Yes, perhaps I should make it clear that I’m  _not_  co-operating,” Sherlock continued. “Mycroft Holmes – where is he?”

At this, the man produced a pad of paper and an old-fashioned fountain pen, and began to write.

“Oh, we’re not actually doing this, are we?” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “Look, I’ll make it simple for you. We’re going to find a table in the Strangers’ Room – please tell my brother that his arse is requested there at his earliest convenience.”

John followed Sherlock through the lobby to a side-room that he immediately recognised, having been summoned there by Mycroft in the days before Sherlock’s supposed suicide. It didn’t exactly have positive associations. As an establishment, it presumably provided for its members an oasis of calm and a place for quiet contemplation, but for outsiders, it exuded a deliberate air of passive aggression.

“Mycroft warned me,” Sherlock said, selecting a table at the furthest point from the window. “He told me that a former adversary had surfaced, but wouldn’t disclose anything further. Now would seem to be a good time for him to stop being so coy.”

Sherlock flopped down in one of the wingback chairs, swinging his legs onto the low table that was probably antique mahogany, and draping himself over the arms of the chair. Taking the seat opposite, John was aware of the stately pairs of eyes glancing over the tops of newspapers, the quiet, judgmental clearing of throats to which Sherlock was either oblivious or uncaring.  

As a smartly-dressed waiter passed with a tea trolley, Sherlock reached over and snagged a biscuit.

“You know that if you became a member, you wouldn’t have to steal from the waiting staff,” said a familiar voice from the doorway. Mycroft was standing there, umbrella in hand.

“Well, you know what Karl Marx said about clubs,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes,  _Karl_  Marx,” Mycroft replied, airily. “That well-known member of the Marx Brothers comedy troupe, who also had a passing interest in socioeconomic analysis. Anyway, to what do we owe the pleasure today, brother mine?”

John saw Sherlock narrow his eyes and squint at his brother.

“You’ve just got here,” he said, accusingly. “Usually you’re here on a Thursday by three o’clock sharp, but I can see that you’ve only just arrived.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Mycroft sighed. “For a nice little game of ‘Deductions’? I can start by telling you that your son had banana porridge for breakfast again, and that Dr Hooper’s cat requires an appointment at the vet.”

This was the last thing they needed – competitive smart-arsing. Sherlock got to his feet, as his brother started towards him.

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock said, once they were almost eye to eye. “Tell me what you know.”

Mycroft sighed.

“If we’re going to do this, you’re going to at least allow me my first pot of tea since eight o’clock this morning,” he said, gesturing for the waiter to divert his tea trolley to their table.

Sherlock remained standing – some kind of weird, petty dominance thing that John had noticed over the years – while he waited for his brother to pour himself a cup of tea, add the milk and stir in an artificial sweetener from a dispenser he kept in his pocket.

“I take it Adler has made contact?” Mycroft said, gesturing with his eyes for Sherlock to sit down.

“How did she manage it?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I highly doubt that a change of phone number would prove an insurmountable barrier to the likes of Irene Adler,” Mycroft replied. “Chances are she probably could have done it at any point in the last four years.”

John leaned forward in his chair.

“So…why now?” John asked, feeling as though he probably already knew the answer.

He saw Mycroft briefly raise his eyebrows towards Sherlock.

“Why indeed?” he replied. “One can’t help but think that she has her reasons. The situation at 221B Baker Street is distinctly more… _domestic_  than when she last set foot over the threshold. Just one idea that occurs to me.”

John saw Sherlock stiffen in his chair.

“You think this is a threat against Molly? Against my family?”

“A threat? I highly doubt it,” Mycroft replied, placing his cup back on its saucer. “Well, not physical harm anyway. That was never really Adler’s _modus operandi_. This is a power-play, Sherlock.”

At this, John saw Sherlock grip the arm of his chair more tightly.

“She has no power, not anymore,” he replied.

“Perhaps you handed her that power when you made the rather rash decision to save her life,” Mycroft replied, with a pointed look at his brother.

John saw Sherlock’s jaw fix in place as he swallowed.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

At this Mycroft let out a short, humourless laugh.

  
“Oh, come  _on_ , Sherlock,” he said. “You surely knew that I would find out. I knew all about it before your plane home even touched the tarmac. Two of my agents were on that same flight as you back from Jinnah.”

_Oh, he wasn’t going to like that._

“And I suppose you’d have rather I’d allowed her to suffer a brutal, inhumane execution?” Sherlock snapped.

“She was no longer my problem,” Mycroft said simply. “Until now. You put her back in the game, Sherlock. You might have thought by saving her life you were gaining the upper hand, putting Irene Adler in your debt, but in actual fact you were making it known to her that you wanted it to continue – whatever ‘it’ was. She knew she meant something to you.”

Mycroft poured himself some more tea, his fingers hovering momentarily above the plate of shortbread biscuits. Sherlock, John could tell, was now like a tightly coiled spring.

“Of course, I can only speculate as to what occurred after you did your little impression of the Turkish Delight man,” he continued. “Although I did note from the airport footage that you were dressed very differently when you arrived back on British soil. Adopting local tradition…or perhaps something happened to your own clothes?”

One quick glance at Sherlock told John that unless he did something, this conversation was going to go downhill very quickly and likely end with them both ejected face-first onto the pavements of The Mall.

“None of this is getting us anywhere,” he cut in, a hand out to Sherlock to keep him at bay. “Mycroft – should we be worried? I thought Irene Adler would trigger all sorts of alarms if she tried to set foot in the country again. Why would she risk it…for this?”

As he asked, he realised he still didn’t really know what ‘this’ was.

“As I explained to my brother a short while ago,” Mycroft replied. “Situations change. Allegiances can be bartered. Ms Adler has no doubt bought herself a few favours and used that currency to pay off a few of those forces she had been foolish enough to cross.”

This wasn’t good enough. He could see the anxiety in Sherlock’s eyes at the thought that Molly and William could be at risk, and he, too, was thinking of Rosie, and the possibility of her being caught in the crossfire.

“Where is she, Mycroft?” he pressed.

There was a short pause, and Mycroft pursed his lips.

“We are…working on that.”

John sighed, seeing out of the corner of his eye Sherlock balling his hand into a fist on the arm of the chair.

“You don’t know?” he asked.

“Of course he doesn’t know,” Sherlock spat. “That’s why he’s stalling.”

“As I also made clear to you, Sherlock,” his brother replied. “I am taking this matter seriously, and it is one in which I am personally involved. The safety and security of Molly and William are paramount.”

At this, Sherlock folded his arms across his chest.

“Yes, well, the car outside Baker Street isn’t very subtle,” he huffed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Molly has noticed it and is already concerned.”

The briefest of creases passed across Mycroft’s brow.

“Car?”

“Yes, Mycroft, the car!” Sherlock continued. “The black Audi with tinted windows that practically screams ‘Secret Service’.”

Again, there was a pause, and John watched as the expression on Mycroft’s face shifted. Almost as soon as the mask dropped, Mycroft recovered, but John hadn’t missed it.

“It isn’t one of yours, is it,” he said.

Slowly, Mycroft set down his teacup and rose to his feet. John watched as Sherlock’s brother crossed the room to a more secluded corner and took out his phone. With his eyes still on the older brother, he addressed Sherlock.

“You have to tell Molly,” he whispered. “Right now, Sherlock.”

“I can’t,” he replied, in a harsh hiss.

“She needs to know,” John insisted.

“So - what? Do I casually call her and say ‘Hello, darling, do you remember that dominatrix you carried out a post-mortem on - you know, shortly after I’d humiliated you at that truly awful Christmas party? Well, as it happens she isn’t dead after all – sorry about that!– and she might actually be back in the country, with the intention of hurting us’. By the way, would you like me to bring something home for supper?”

John raised his eyebrows, trying to ignore the attention they were drawing, thanks to Sherlock’s complete inability to keep his voice lower than the level of ‘railway station tannoy’.  

“That would actually be better than nothing,” he replied.

He wasn’t sure he was aware that Molly had carried out Irene Adler’s supposed post-mortem; if he was remembering correctly, that would have meant she was there at the morgue the same night as the Christmas party – he had to admire her resilience, but  _that_  couldn’t have been easy.

Sherlock had his head in his hands, knuckles white as he dug his fingers into his hair.

“I  _love_  her, John,” he said, suddenly locating the volume control. “She and William are  _everything_  that is good and right in my life. This is a shadow from my past, something of my own doing, and I must keep them both as far away from any of it as possible. Molly has more than enough to be dealing with at the moment without the added anxiety and strain that this will bring.”

This argument sounded weirdly familiar to John; late night conversations with Mary now resonated through his brain. Hadn’t she said the very same things to him?

“I think you’re making a mistake,” he said, shaking his head. “You need to give Molly more credit.”

“It’s not that she  _can’t_  handle it, John,” Sherlock replied, sitting back in his chair, a finger to his lips. “It’s that she shouldn’t have to.”

Understanding his friend’s reasons did nothing to ease John’s convictions that Sherlock was fundamentally doing the wrong thing. But before he had time to voice this, Mycroft returned to their corner of the Strangers’ Room.

“So, I assume that you now have Adler’s precise GPS location, hm?” Sherlock asked, getting to his feet.

“There will be eyes on Baker Street at all times until the potential threat is neutralised,” Mycroft replied, evading the question. He cleared this throat. “Although you may find it hard to believe, Sherlock, there is actually another pressing matter about which we need to speak.”

John glanced at Sherlock, but didn’t see any comprehension on his face.

  
“If you’re hoping I’ll take your ticket for  _Calamity Jane_  next week, you’re really choosing the wrong time to ask,” Sherlock replied with a growl.

“When I came to greet you earlier, you deduced that I had just arrived from somewhere,” Mycroft said, disregarding this. “The truth is, I had come from Sherrinford. An unscheduled visit.”

John immediately felt his heartrate start to increase, and he saw Sherlock’s whole body tense. Both Holmes brothers made regular, pre-arranged visits to the island – on which John never wished to set foot again – but Mycroft Holmes was not a man to make a spontaneous, familial gesture.

  
“What is it, Mycroft? What’s happened?” Sherlock demanded.

“Our sister,” Mycroft began, slowly. “Is talking again.”

John saw Sherlock blink, as Mycroft took a breath in preparation.

“And she is asking to speak to you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who either aren't as old as me, or otherwise managed to avoid Britain in the 80s, this is the Turkish Delight man:   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qAY_o36paQ0
> 
> It seemed to be played on hard rotation at the cinema, in conjunction with the Um Bongo advert. Fry's Turkish Delight was the devil's chocolate treat - bloody horrible and tasted like flowers. Mycroft was not paying Sherlock a compliment! :-D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When lunch with Sherlock's parents actually turns out to be the easiest part of your day...

William had finally fallen asleep on the Tube on the way home, which was a sure sign that he was exhausted – usually, nothing was so exciting to him as a packed, smelly, overheated train car ( _not_  carriage), where his buggy was rammed in alongside sweating, weary tourists and quietly seething commuters. Molly couldn’t quite fathom why he loved it so much, but she was starting to realise that babies have poor judgement in a whole range of situations. Repeatedly trying to eat kibble from Toby’s bowl was another recent example of this.

It wasn’t surprising that William was tired, having just spent two hours with his grandparents. Wanda and Timothy Holmes were in town to sign some papers in relation to their new city flat (which Sherlock had forlornly calculated was only twenty-six minutes from Baker Street in light traffic), and had insisted that Molly and William have lunch with them before they headed back to Victoria.

It was always a mutual love-fest where Sherlock’s parents and their grandson were concerned, and Molly couldn’t help but enjoy witnessing it. She knew Sherlock loved it, too, although he would never admit to it. What Sherlock probably wouldn’t love, however, was the outfit that his mother had bought for William to wear at the wedding. As soon as Molly lifted it out of the gift bag, she was hit with a weird sense of déjà vu – it took her a few moments to realise, as she tried to formulate an appropriate response, that she had seen an old photo of Sherlock wearing something incredibly similar to a Holmes family wedding. Where, in 2017, had Wanda Holmes managed to find a pair of pale blue knickerbocker dungarees, frilly socks and a bowtie for a baby?

Of course, the subject of babies, plural, came up during their lunch. Sherlock’s mum was, Molly could tell, trying to be tactful and casual about the possibility of a second grandchild, but at the same time it felt as though Wanda Holmes was giving her a virtual body-scan, trying to ascertain whether cells might be frantically dividing in her uterus as they spoke.

As Molly tried to manage their expectations and play down the extent to which she and Sherlock were actually, actively trying, the more she felt a slight…pang. If someone had asked her, even a few years ago, whether she fancied having two children in the space of two years, she’d have laughed in their face (and probably crossed her legs). But this was Sherlock, the man she had waited her whole bloody adult life for. She  _did_  want this - and the more she tried to affect nonchalance, the more Molly realised that she probably felt as strongly as Sherlock did. And then of course that made her feel like a horrible mother, somehow not satisfied with the wonderful, brilliant little boy she already had – which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

She watched William as he slept, and as the Tube brought them ever closer to Baker Street. Sometimes her son felt like some sort of wish-fulfilment made reality – although even her most indulgent Sherlock-related fantasies over the years hadn’t gone so far as to include their imaginary children. She’d never been  _that_  deluded. In fact, she supposed, the wish-fulfilment was more on Sherlock’s side, if anyone’s – after all, he’d gone to great (albeit morally-dubious) lengths to ensure he stood the best chance of getting her pregnant that first time. At least this time she was in on the plan.

But what if that plan came to nothing? Molly felt that she needed to prepare them both for that possibility. No amount of dietary alterations, sperm-viability tests ( _that_  was an interesting conversation with Sherlock when she’d found the empty box in the bin) and carefully-scheduled sex was going to change the fact that she  _was_  thirty-eight years old and stocks were probably running low. Yes, Mike Stamford’s wife had recently had baby number five (or was it six?) at the age of forty-four, but she was clearly some kind of ridiculously fecund earth-mother who just had to  _look_  at her husband to get knocked up.  Molly then immediately felt terrible for thinking such things about Helen Stamford, who was perfectly lovely and regularly baked cakes for Mike’s colleagues.

_Three months. It’s only been three months_ , Molly reminded herself. Really, they probably just needed to have more sex, and that was hardly something to complain about. Sherlock wouldn’t be back late from Sherrinford, so if their son could be persuaded to co-operate with bedtime, she could probably think about jumping Sherlock’s bones sometime before eight. And then maybe again around ten, if she had a strong coffee in between and made a concerted effort not to fall asleep in front of the telly.  

As the weather was nice, and in order to prolong William’s nap, she got off the Tube at Bond Street, with a little help from the usual series of strangers to manage the steps. After walking for around five minutes, she started to get a strange feeling…unsettling, slightly off. Stopping for a moment to transfer her phone from her bag to her pocket, she noticed that one of the men who had assisted her with the pushchair was walking on the other side of the road, a little behind her. When she stopped, so did he, ostensibly to put his headphones in. But when she started off again, he did too. He looked to be talking hands-free, but even Molly knew that old trick – she’d (slightly shamefully) done it once to avoid Tom when she’d seen him outside a pub, a couple of months after she ended things.

Molly started talking to a now-awake William, although she wasn’t sure why – it felt slightly reassuring, and made her focus on something else. The only thing she would change about life with Sherlock were the frequent waves of paranoia that overtook her; her fiancé had, Molly knew, probably pissed off half of the population of London during his investigations, so the paranoia was probably partly justified. She just had to find a way to live with it.

“What do you fancy for dinner, Will?” she said. (The great thing about life in London was that nobody batted an eyelid if you seemed to be having a conversation with yourself – in fact, half the people she passed were probably doing it, too.)

“P’raps fishcakes,” she considered. “There’s a lot of leftover tuna to eat up now that silly Daddy’s decided he’s gone off it.”

William suddenly perked up, and started craning his head around the side of the pushchair.

“Da-da!”

“No, sweetheart, he’s not here,” she said, leaning forward to smooth William’s curls and at the same time catching sight of the same man again. “We’ll see Daddy back at home soon.”

“Da-da!”

“You know, ‘mummy’ isn’t such a hard word,” Molly said, pulling a face and eliciting a toothy smile from her son. In the past week, William had also developed an approximation of Rosie’s name and could now describe Toby as ‘tat’ – he was clearly getting his priorities in order.

As she crossed over the intersection with Marylebone Road, Molly was relieved to see the man turn right and disappear from view. Still, while she was on a paranoid roll, she expected to see that black car parked near their home again. But there was no sign of it.

“Maybe Uncle Mycroft realised it was a bit obvious,” she commented to William, as she bumped the buggy up onto the pavement outside Speedy’s.

Once inside the hallway of 221, it was obvious that nobody else was at home. Sherlock, of course, had moved his regular Sherrinford trip forward by a week, and John would be at the clinic. If Mrs Hudson was at home, she’d be out in the hallway like a shot to claim a cuddle with her godson. Molly unclipped William from his buggy and lifted him out; now he had mastered the ability to stand unaided, he proudly held onto the stair-post while she folded up the pushchair. 

“Okay then, Mister Smarty-pants,” Molly smiled, pressing a kiss to William’s cheek. “Go for it!”

With a little encouragement, William started to scramble on his hands and knees up the stairs towards 221B – he hadn’t yet mastered walking (though that clearly wouldn’t be long coming), but stairs were becoming all too easy. It was amazing how quickly all this was happening.

When they reached the top, Molly unfastened the safety gate to let them through, scooping up William while she fumbled for the front door key. He wriggled and whined to be let down again, sounding weirdly like Sherlock when he was being impatient.

“Just a second, sweetheart,” Molly murmured, wrestling with the key from a difficult angle.

With the door finally open, she deposited William on the floor, and like a wind-up toy, he was off. But then Molly was aware that he’d stopped.

“Hello, little man,” an unfamiliar female voice said from somewhere in the living room. “Well, there’s no doubting who your daddy is, is there?”

The next few seconds - as Molly crossed the floor, swept up her son and eventually came face to face with the uninvited guest – seemed to stretch into minutes.

Standing by the mantelpiece, dressed in a black, sequined wrap dress, was a woman Molly had never expected to meet.

“Surprised to see me?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

Molly held onto William more tightly, even though he was straining to be free.

“Oh, don’t worry,” the woman continued. “I’m not going to hurt him. That really isn’t my thing. He’s actually surprisingly adorable.”

“You…” Molly began, swallowing and trying to give some order to the hundreds of competing thoughts in her head. “I thought you-”

“Were dead?” Irene Adler completed, toying with the tribal figure on the corner of the mantel. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

Molly shook her head, shifted William onto her hip.

“No, what I…I actually conducted your post-mortem,” she said, hearing just how ridiculous that sounded as she said it. “I wrote up the report. Sherlock identified your…”

She trailed off. Oh god. Of course.

“Yes,” Adler replied. “He did, didn’t he?”

Molly could feel her pulse racing, wanting desperately to regain control over some small part of her herself, whatever shred of her wasn’t now preoccupied with what Sherlock had apparently done four years ago, what he had kept from her. She forced those thoughts aside, jolted back to the present moment by the weight and warmth of her son in her arms.

“You need to leave,” she said, surprised by the conviction of her tone.

“What? So soon?” Adler replied, sashaying around the back of Sherlock’s chair. Molly saw her drag a perfectly-manicured finger across the back of the leather. “You haven’t even offered me a cup of tea. Of course, I don’t actually drink tea, but it would be nice to be asked. Molly, isn’t it?”

Molly didn’t reply.

“And I know this fine young man is William,” she added. “He’s rather famous, too, these days, isn’t he? I’m surprised at the pair of you, being so  _laissez-faire_  about his privacy – after all, his daddy has upset an awful lot of terribly corrupt and unpleasant characters over the years, and they might not find young Master Holmes quite so adorable as I do.”

Molly could almost feel the adrenaline beginning to surge inside her. This was how it was. She was alone with her son, and they were in danger. No weapon that she could see, but she couldn’t assume.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “Why did you come here?”

Asking how the woman actually got into the building and flat seemed completely redundant - Sherlock had never had any problems accessing her locked flat during the time he used her home as a bolt-hole - and it wouldn’t change the fact that it had happened.

Irene Adler smiled, moving to sit down in Sherlock’s chair, one long, sculpted leg crossing over the other.

“You know our history,” she replied. “Well…some of it. I suppose that knowing what I know about Sherlock, I became curious to see it for myself.”

“See what?” Molly prompted, knowing all the time that she was playing right into this woman’s hands.

“Sherlock Holmes’ life of domestic bliss,” Adler smiled. “The wife, the child. I must confess I’m a little disappointed that there isn’t a dog – that would have completed the dull cliché very nicely. I did spot a cat when I…let myself in, but it didn’t stick around for very long. Cats have very good instincts like that.”

“You must want something,” Molly said. She was rubbing circles on William’s back, but wasn’t sure whether it was to soothe him or herself. “I don’t believe you’d just come here for that.”

“Then you don’t know me, Miss Hooper,” Adler replied. “Oh yes, I made a little  _faux pas_  just now, didn’t I? Because of course you’re not married yet, are you? Although I believe the big day is not very far away. Odd little thing, but I’m still waiting on my invitation. Shame really, because I believe I have the perfect little outfit for such an occasion – one of Sherlock’s favourites. I do know what he likes, you know. Text conversations can be surprisingly revealing.”

Molly took a breath. She was being tested and she knew it. But William had to be her priority; his safety alone was what mattered. She was all he had, so all she could do was play along and hope that she thought of something better along the way.

“In fact, I may have texted him a little while ago,” Adler continued, stroking a finger up and down the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “A photograph. Something to put my current location beyond doubt.”

William began to cry, clearly picking up on the tension in the room. Molly bounced him a little, feeling hopeless, wondering how long she could keep this up. Not that she had a choice.

“He won’t come alone,” she said in reply. At that moment, she didn’t even know whether that would be a good or a bad thing; either could have consequences.

“Oh, I think he might,” Adler said. “That’s the thing about Sherlock, isn’t it? He loves to play the lone saviour. That misplaced chivalry. There’s something endearingly…naïve about it.”

Molly watched as Irene Adler gracefully crossed to the window. She whispered reassuring things into William’s hair, interspersed with comforting kisses to his crown, but he wouldn’t be settled.

“Ah. Speeding cab,” Adler smiled. “One consulting detective arriving right on cue.”

Molly closed her eyes. She knew she should feel relieved, reassured by the fact that any moment, she would no longer be alone in this – but the dread and uncertainty still clawed at her, knowing that whatever her motives, Irene Adler had all of them exactly where she wanted, and she was probably just getting started.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has all turned a bit angsty and stressful – sorry! Normal service will resume soon...although not immediately... ;-)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave the previous chapter on a cliffhanger, but here we go with the Sherlock/Irene reunion. As renniejoy commented slightly cryptically on the last chapter, ‘Bad Irene – no biscuits!” – I think that pretty much sums it up in its own way! (Although I would possibly let her have the crumbling, plain biscuits in the bottom of the tin…or anything with coconut.)

 

 

Even if he set aside all of his experience and the techniques he had taught himself, common sense dictated that he should act with caution. Clear the approaches, check all the usual places where accomplices could be posted, anticipate all of the possible ways that his home might have been turned into a trap. But his heart was hammering so hard in his chest that it fought for dominance with the adrenaline coursing through him, and all he could think of was them.

Molly. His son.

His own stupidity.

Still reeling from the latest developments at Sherrinford, he’d rejected Mycroft’s offer of a car, choosing instead to take an anonymous cab, to enable him to better order his thoughts. He had taken out his phone to send a message to Molly, but as he climbed into the taxi, the text arrived. Hearing the tone, his whole body clenched, and then the image appeared on his screen.

A photograph of a photograph.

His stomach had lurched violently as he recognised the photo in the frame as living on the mantelpiece of his own sitting room. Even as they’d gradually turned his place of work into a family home, Molly had still kept most photographs to the bedrooms and landing, but this one had been a gift from John – Sherlock, Molly and William at the cake place for Molly’s birthday, William’s face captured in paroxysms of happiness at his first taste of cake.  

It took Sherlock another moment to notice the immaculately-manicured hand that held the photo frame up to the camera.

He had thrust payment at the cab driver before the vehicle had even stopped, rattling at the door before tumbling out onto the pavement. He was close, he was there. Somehow, he managed to fit his key to the lock, his pulse still pounding in his ears as he tried to use all of his practiced techniques to force calm upon himself. He needed focus and concentration now, more than at any other time, but he couldn’t prevent himself from calling out Molly’s name, the moment he crashed through the front door.

She didn’t reply. What if it was because she couldn’t?

Then he heard a sound that he could recognise anywhere – William was crying. Not howling, not out-of-his-mind distressed – the kind of crying that Molly could usually curb…if she was able.

When he pushed open the door to 221B, the first thing he saw was Molly, holding William in her arms. He couldn’t help the jolt of relief that shot through him:  _alive, unharmed_. But the look on her face as she turned towards him – a fear he’d never before seen, anxiety marking every feature.  _You’ve done this_ , was all he could think. Molly looked to him, biting slightly on her lip; in that one look, she was asking and conveying everything she could. Sherlock hoped that the look he gave her in response did the same.

William spotted him and immediately stopped crying, instead lurching in Molly’s arms, his own little hands outstretched towards him. Loathing himself in the moment, Sherlock knew he had to ignore his son.

She was there. The Woman. Holding court in his living room, as though time had stood still.

“So?” Sherlock said. It was her move.

“You didn’t return my messages,” Adler replied, folding her arms across her chest. “Lucky I know where to find you.”

Sherlock swallowed. How much did Molly know? He swept aside the thought – there would be time for that later.

“I don’t recall inviting you,” Sherlock replied. As her gaze moved away, he quickly swept the room with his eyes, scanned the woman in front of him. Unarmed.

“I just assumed it was a standing invitation,” she replied. “You know, ‘look me up when you’re in town’, that kind of thing. And to be honest, Sherlock, I was concerned. When I read the articles, I rather worried that you might be suffering an early mid-life crisis.”

Adler laughed, apparently amused by her own notion.

“But apparently, it’s real enough,” she continued, her eyes tracking over all of the signs of domestic life that Sherlock now didn’t even see, all just part of the fabric of his life now. The picture books on the coffee table with the newspapers, toys strewn around the feet of the sofa, one of Molly’s striped jumpers abandoned on her yellow chair next to a medical journal.

“I always thought you were different,” she said, pretending to ponder while taking a few slow, deliberate steps towards him. “I would have sworn to it, but obviously I was mistaken. All of  _this_. Perhaps you’re just as ordinary –  _boring_  – as Jim Moriarty thought you were.”

The name provoked a response that Sherlock forced himself to swallow. His glance flicked to Molly, whose eyes were focused on the top of William’s head. Their son whimpered and hiccupped, keeping up his protest although probably sensing that his unhappiness wasn’t going to be addressed.

Adler came closer, stopping several inches from Sherlock.

“You must be terrified that you’ll get bored,” she said, fixing him with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, nobody goes into these situations thinking it will happen to them, but it always does. More than half of the clients on my books are just like that; bored by the ordinariness of what they chose, the  _safeness_. Familiarity breeds contempt – isn’t that what they say? It’s all so predictable.”

Sherlock stood his ground, despite Adler’s close proximity; almost sharing the same breathing space.

“You’re not armed,” he said plainly.

A playful expression passed across her face momentarily.

“Would you like to check for certain?”

“You’re unarmed,” he repeated. It wasn’t a question.

“Well you’ve got me there,” she replied. “After all, it would ruin the line of my dress. But the people I have watching this flat right now don’t have the same problem.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You’re bluffing,” he said.

“Well, that would be easier for you, wouldn’t it?” Adler replied. She ran a finger down the lapel of his jacket until it reached the hem; Sherlock could feel her toying with the fabric there.

“Molly and our son are going to leave now,” he stated, fixing The Woman head-on with his gaze.

“Sherlock, no.”

It was the first time he’d heard Molly’s voice since he’d arrived in the flat, and it almost made him jump. His eyes flew to her, and Sherlock saw that same determined, resolute, lovely face he’d first seen in the darkness of the lab when he’d asked her to help him fake his death. That was  _his_  Molly.  

“Perhaps Molly doesn’t trust me with you,” Adler smiled. “Or maybe it’s the other way around, hm?”

“ _Molly_ ,” Sherlock said. He knew what she was doing, but he couldn’t allow it.

“No, Sherlock,” she repeated. “This…this is our home. This is how we do things now. I’m-I’m not going.”

Shifting William in her arms again, Molly turned to Irene Adler.

“Any business you have with Sherlock, you also have with me. You told me you weren’t here to hurt us, so prove it.”

Adler turned imperiously to face Molly.

“I insist that you stay,” she said. “After all, I wouldn’t want there to be any secrets between the two of you – I understand secrecy isn’t beneficial to a relationship. Although I did gather, Sherlock, that Molly wasn’t altogether aware that I am, in fact, not dead…”

He knew where this was heading. Looking across at Molly, he saw her dodge his gaze, averting her eyes to the floor. It was self-preservation, a state she’d become familiar with during the early years of their friendship, and to which Sherlock had hoped he would never drive her again.  He had to forcibly hold his arms by his sides, to fight against the urge to go to her.

“Applying the deductive reasoning you adore so much,” Adler continue. “It stands to reason that your fiancée also has no idea of the lengths to which you went to ensure that I remained…not dead. Am I doing it right, Sherlock? Is this how deductions work?”

“I saved your life as a show of mercy,” Sherlock replied, through gritted teeth. “Even  _you_  didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Sherlock couldn’t begin to consider what Molly was thinking at this point; if he allowed himself, he would end up falling at her feet. He could hear John’s voice in his head, the words that the previous day he had dismissed out of hand.

“A show of mercy…” Adler repeated, as though considering this. She fingered the pendant that hung about her neck. “A night flight to Jinnah, a meticulously planned desert rescue – in full costume, no less – and an insistence that you remain with me for the night until my safety was secured. Certainly a very…memorable show of mercy.”

“Whatever point you think you’re making, Adler,” Sherlock growled. “Consider it made.”

“Oh, that? That was just an aside, Sherlock, an interesting divergence for Miss Hooper’s benefit. But it goes to prove  _one_  of my points.”

“Do enlighten us.”

“That you believe the world is a more interesting place with me in it,” she replied. “Because you  _are_ prone to boredom, and whatever else you may think of me, Sherlock, you know that I will never be boring.”

William began to cry again, his plaintive whimpering now replaced by full-blown tears and high-pitched squeals. Sherlock heard Molly speaking to him softly, her own voice now quavering as she tried to calm him down. Their son was accustomed to his needs being met almost instantly.

“Oh, surely one of you has something you can shove in his mouth!” Adler said, with an exaggerated eye-roll.

Before Sherlock could speak, Molly beat him to it.

“He’s frightened,” she replied, clearly trying to control her fury. “He’s probably hungry, and his gums hurt, too. He’s nine months old and he has no idea what’s happening – surely even you can understand that?”

“Not really my…forte,” Adler replied. “Thank god. It all seems terribly tedious – and to think that you  _chose_  this?”

She aimed the barbed comment at Sherlock, who had to bite down on the instinct to retaliate. If he was going to end this, it wouldn’t be by rising to every scrap of bait that she dangled, by being drawn further into her net.

William’s cries were now becoming breathless and desperate, and Sherlock could no longer ignore him. A glance at Molly told him that she couldn’t do this much longer, physically exhausted by the task of restraining their little boy (who even at nine months appeared huge in his petite mother’s arms), as well as reaching emotional breaking point. Out of sheer helplessness, Sherlock grabbed William’s large, plush bumblebee from where he’d spotted it by the sofa, and thrust it towards Molly. It would only ever be a temporary salve, but he wanted to do  _something_ ; reassure his son that he loved him and understood his fear, reassure Molly that he was still the man she thought he was. Their fingers touched momentarily as the toy was transferred.

With a howl of desperation, William grabbed the soft toy and jammed the bee’s rubber antenna into his mouth. Smoothing down his hair, Molly began to hum to him – Sherlock picked up the melody of ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’.

“Ms Adler,” Sherlock began, feeling the sting of bile in the back of his throat. “I’m sure you’re well aware that I’ve had people exit this flat in ways other than the front door. So, unless you want to be the first to try it in a two thousand pound Vera Wang cocktail dress, then I strongly advise that you stop wasting our time and upsetting our child, and tell us why you’re really here.”

Irene Adler clearly wasn’t rattled by this in the least (she had, after all, experience of being neck-to-blade with a machete, and that was just what he knew about).

“I’ve come to you as a client,” she replied simply. “I understood that was how you worked. Clients come to see you; if you’re not here, they’re shown up. Except I suppose I sort of showed myself up here.”

“Things have changed,” Sherlock replied. “By appointment only these days.”

He and Molly had decided that this was the only way to make 221B work as both his workplace and a family home. And even then, it sometimes only barely worked.

“Well, if you’d only answered my original communication, Sherlock, perhaps I could have made an appointment,” Adler countered. “As it was, I had to…use my initiative.”

“Sherlock asked you what you want,” Molly put in.

William had his head in the crook of her neck, the bee still stuffed in his mouth; he was whimpering intermittently now, beginning to drowse from the sheer effort and the stress.

“I have identified a potential client of my own, who happens to be a fairly well-known oligarch,” The Woman began, hitching herself onto the edge of Sherlock’s desk. “He’s going to be in Dubai on business, and he’s always in the market for particular type of female company. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve had a better offer, and another gentleman is prepared to pay a frankly  _obscene_  amount of money for acquiring certain information from him. It’s simple, really – I provide the services, you obtain the information and secure its safe passage.”

Sherlock heard himself laughing at the absurdity of it.

“Why the hell would I do any of that for you?”

Adler frowned, folded her arms.

“Oh, I know you’re not motivated by money,” she said. “Although your cut would pay for a very decent little private nursery school for your son. No, I was thinking you might be more motivated by the stick than the carrot in this scenario.”

“I won’t let you hurt them,” he heard himself saying, his hands balled so tightly into fists that his knuckles strained.

“Then you’ll want to play along nicely,” Adler replied mildly. “Because otherwise, I might reveal to the world what really happened on the piazza outside Appledore two-and-a-half years ago. By happy coincidence, I have a client who is a former marksman, and who up until recently worked for a government contractor; he is prepared to testify publicly that  _you_  executed Charles Magnussen in cold blood.”

Sherlock felt his pulse spike. More than ever, he was aware of Molly’s presence, reminded that he really, truly did not deserve the chance she had given him and the child they brought into the world together. And of all of the things that William could never know, this was right up there.

“There is irrefutable video footage to the contrary,” he replied, as evenly as he could. “That story is done. You can say what you like, you won’t be believed.”

Adler drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk as she re-crossed her legs.

“I thought you might say something like that,” she said. “Then let’s try something else. Something arguably a little less explosive, but in its quiet way, potentially just as…damaging. How about instead, we let it be known that four years ago, your fiancée - a notable professional in her field by all accounts, with an unblemished employment record - knowingly and deliberately misidentified a body. Not only that, but she helped to throw said body out of a hospital window, subsequently falsified official NHS records, lied to the police and her hospital superiors, and denied a decent burial to a very real victim.”

By this time, Irene prowled the living room like a prosecutor in a court room, claiming the space, owning it. Although the thought frightened him, Sherlock could already clearly picture his hand at her neck, pinning her to the nearest wall. But he wouldn’t do it. Because although Molly was the very reason he wanted to mete out revenge by force, he knew that she would never look at him the same way again. Losing her trust, her good opinion, an ounce of her love – nothing was worth that, especially not the worthless intruder in front of him now.

He glanced at Molly, her face pinched, lips pressed tightly together. She was doing everything she could not to cry – for his sake, for her own, and for William more than anyone. He heard her humming again, the same tune.

“You know, you may dress a little better than most of the criminals that cross my path,” Sherlock replied. “But it’s a cheap veneer. Underneath, you’re no different from the rest of the low-lives that are habitually belched from the London gutters, desperately clawing for my attention.”

 He took a step towards her, watching for each twitch of muscle in her face, each flicker of her eyes.

“And you,  _Ms Adler_ , are not fit to inhabit the same  _space_  as Molly Hooper, to breathe the same  _air_ , to call yourself the same  _kind_.”

Adler gently propelled herself away from the desk.

“That’s a very gallant speech, Mr Holmes,” she replied. “A little…cruel, perhaps, but I’m sure Miss Hooper appreciates you defending her so staunchly. It’s almost sweet. Although it would be interesting to see how far your efforts to defend her would get you both, when she’s facing professional misconduct charges, expulsion from the job she loves so much, being struck off by the General Medical Council – who knows, perhaps it would get as far as a courtroom? I can’t imagine that being the  _best_  start to married life, but what do I know? Again, not really my  _métier_.”

“I’m starting to think that I should have left you to die on your knees in the desert,” Sherlock said. “You can’t possibly think that this is going to work?”

Adler looked as though she was considering this for a moment.

“I’d say I’m fairly confident,” she said.

He watched as Irene Adler walked to where she had draped her coat over the back of his chair, and reached into the pocket. From it, she retrieved a plain envelope, which she placed on the desk.

“Your plane ticket,” she said simply. “That’s how confident I am. The flight is nine-thirty tonight, out of Heathrow – business class, of course. Oh, something it probably would have been useful to mention…”

She paused, turning to face them both.

“…it’s a two-week trip,” she said. "I'll need time to settle in, gain the target's trust, you know how it is. That isn't a problem, is it? Nothing of… _significance_  in the diary?"

Of course. All part of a game that Irene Adler had to win – and from which she wouldn’t let him retire without first ripping from his grasp everything that he held dear. Either that, or she wanted him to beg – and she knew full well that now she had found him as both a fiancé and a father, she had the leverage to make him.

"It's an eight o'clock check-in, and it would be polite to confirm our breakfast reservation for tomorrow at the Burj Khalifa in advance so…how about you text me your decision by seven? I think you’ve got my number.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, when he heard a distinctive sound above their heads, which, paired with the screech of tarmac burning rubber, led to only one deduction.

“You know, I think it’s possible that my brother has your number, too,” he replied, watching as Irene Adler’s poker face started to crumble in front of his eyes. “I also think it’s possible that you  _may_  not make that breakfast in Dubai tomorrow. I hope they’re understanding about cancellations.”

Within seconds, there were feet on the ground outside, but it was too soon to show his relief. When Sherlock looked again at Adler, there was still a look of defiance on her face – defiance mixed with anticipation of some sort. She hadn’t been bluffing.

“How many?” Sherlock demanded, moving in front of Molly and William. They weren’t in the direct line of the windows, but he couldn’t take chances.

“I thought you liked puzzles, Sherlock?” Adler replied. Her last throw of the dice.

“ _How many?_ ” he repeated, moving into her space. Instinct made him want to grab her by the wrist, but that’s what she wanted – to know that she was getting to him, to know that she still held the cards.

At that moment, there was the distinct sound of a gunshot outside. Sherlock heard Molly’s gasp, and he twisted around to shield her, but she had already reacted, folding herself around William. Throughout, he kept his eyes fixed on The Woman; she, too, had recoiled at the sound, which told him all he needed to know.

“That’s one fewer than you had before,” Sherlock said, catching a flicker of alarm in Adler’s eyes.

Almost immediately, there were the sound of raised voices in the street outside, someone being yelled at repeatedly – by more than one person - to get down on the ground.

Watching Irene Adler’s face, it was clear that she was now on her own, and she knew it.

Once the door from the street was breached and boots were pounding up the stairs, Sherlock forgot everything else and went to Molly. She was wrung-out, only just hanging on, but there was a steeliness in her eyes, too. Sherlock scooped his sleeping son from Molly’s weary arms, transferring William’s sprawled figure to his chest and shoulder. Molly looked at him, and for a few terrifying moments, Sherlock couldn’t get a read on her – but despite the obvious pain on her face, he felt Molly’s hand slowly, tentatively reach out and take his.

_This is what makes me stronger than you_ , Sherlock thought, standing aside as the black-clad marksmen entered the flat and zeroed in on Irene Adler.  _This is why I win._

Part of him would have dearly loved to be the one to grab The Woman by the elbow and bundle her down the stairs to the waiting car, but nothing was going to move him from this spot.

William let out a shuddering sigh in his sleep, and Sherlock kissed the top of his head. One day, he would tell his son all about how he managed to sleep through this.

He and Molly stood back as the tactical team cleared the room before taking hold of Adler, radios crackling as they confirmed their success to the team leader out on the road. Sherlock was not surprised to hear the distinctive tones of his brother coming through the line.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?” Irene Adler said suddenly, as one of the marksmen pulled her arms behind her back to apply the handcuffs. “Come on, Sherlock, I know you’re _desperate_  to tell me how you did it, how you alerted big brother without me even seeing.”

“That wasn’t Sherlock.”

He looked down at Molly, her hand still gripping his as she addressed Adler.

“And I don’t feel like telling you how I did it,” she continued. “Because I don’t want to let you waste another minute of our time.”

Irene Adler’s face curdled, as though she had swallowed something putrid; she let out a short, acrid laugh, but had no response.

As the bodies descended the stairs, and Sherlock heard Mycroft’s voice downstairs in the hallway, there was a brief moment of strange calm. He felt Molly extricating her fingers from his, and felt a sharp pain of loss in his chest.

  
“Molly…” he began softly, helplessly.

Looking up, she caught his gaze, and Sherlock thought she was going to speak, realising how afraid he was of what she might say. But then slowly, hesitantly, as her face crumpled, she closed the distance between them and folded herself into his arms. Sherlock thought his heart might cleave in two as he felt Molly’s first, silent sobs against his chest. Pressing his nose to her hair, Sherlock wrapped his free hand tightly around her heaving shoulders and pulled her close.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s probably going be fall-out from this. Oh, and there’ll be an explanation for how Molly alerted Mycroft to the danger…
> 
> And just to reassure, we will eventually get back to stag nights, weddings and attempts to get pregnant (although not necessarily in that order!)
> 
> (And in the interests of full disclosure, I 'borrowed' one of Molly's lines from one of my favourite episodes of The X Files!)


	11. Chapter 11

He had only checked his phone after he’d picked up Rosie from the childminder. The surgery had been back-to-back all day, made worse by the fact that Keogh had called in sick himself; rather than cancel his patients, John had worked through lunch and stayed an extra hour, too. So his phone had been on silent all day, in the pocket of his bag – when he eventually thought to check it in the cab, the sheer volume of missed calls and messages practically exploded in his face. He was wondering where to start when the cab driver prompted him for the address, and when John rather distractedly replied, the man made a sucking sound with his teeth.

“Can’t help you there, mate. Major police incident. I’ll have to drop you as close as I can get you.”

It didn’t cross his mind for a second that this wasn’t related to Sherlock. Of course it was bloody related to Sherlock.

Except that Sherlock was at Sherrinford, so…

_Jesus_ …

_Mrs Hudson, Molly, William._

Somehow, he made it through the slew of messages in roughly the right order, able to establish – with additional updates from the cabbie’s radio – that whatever had occurred was over, and that everyone was safe. Finally, he came to what seemed to be the most recent text:

**Safe for you and Rosie to return. Mrs Hudson here already. Explain later - SH**

The police cordon was still in effect at the end of Baker Street, with officers – including armed officers – patrolling the road and conversing with residents and business owners. The boys from Speedy’s were out at the front of their shop, handing coffees and snacks to members of the crime scene team (something they were probably weirdly used to by now).

“John, over ‘ere!”

Hearing his name, John scanned the chaos into which he and Rosie had just stumbled, eventually matching the voice with its owner. Greg was waving him across to where he was standing in the middle of the road, clearly in the middle of issuing instructions to some uniforms.

Hoisting a tired and clearly confused Rosie onto his hip, John made his way over.

“Greg, what the hell…” he began, noticing the smashed upper window in one of the buildings opposite 221B. “This wasn’t…not Sherlock’s sister?”

“No,” Greg replied, pausing to tousle Rosie’s hair and give her an affectionate smile. “This would be one Ms Irene Adler. One from your back catalogue, if I’m remembering the blog correctly.”

“Jesus,” John breathed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “What did she-? She was here?”

“Yeah. She brought company, too – two of ‘em. Well, only one of ‘em now.”

Greg gestured up to the shattered window, where John immediately understood a shooter must have been posted. When they’d found out that Irene Adler was back on the scene, he never envisaged this, never imagined an actual, tangible threat. It had all felt like mischief-making; The Woman trying to mess with Sherlock again, maybe trying to inveigle her way into his life in some way.

“What about Molly and William?” John said. “Were they here?”

“They were the targets,” Lestrade replied. “Sort of. They’re both fine – no physical harm anyway. Seems Sherlock arrived partway through. They’re all upstairs, Mrs Hudson, too.”

“Thank god,” John sighed.

“Big brother as well,” Greg added, nodding up to the flat.

“Mycroft’s here?”

That explained the sleek black car currently parked outside the building. John started to wonder what was going on up there, how Sherlock was coping, whether he was directing his inevitable fears and ire at his brother right now. And what would Molly be thinking – if she could even think at all at this point?

“It was his people who got here first,” Greg explained, as the three of them crossed the street back onto the pavement. “We got the call as they were already on their way. ‘Course,  _we_ have to do all the paperwork.”

Rosie was repeatedly holding out her soft toy monkey to Lestrade, hoping that he would embark on the series of animal impressions that she loved so much. Greg was good at that kind of thing – much more natural at it than he was – and John wondered whether his friend felt he’d missed out, by not having a family. He was just as indulgent with William, too, always willing to do in company the playful, slightly undignified things that made their godson shriek with delight and Sherlock roll his eyes (although John strongly suspected he would then repeat them himself in private).

“No, Rosie, not right now,” John said, attempting to gently withdraw his daughter’s arm. “Uncle Greg’s a bit busy.”

Lestrade grinned, digging his hands into his pockets.

“Uncle Greg can take a break,” he replied. “I’m only ‘elping to finish things up anyway. Dimmock was very keen that I give him the case – unfinished business, I s’pose. E’s already getting grief from Donovan and the others about Adler not actually being dead.”

“D’you want to come in for a coffee?” John asked. “I’ll need to give Rosie some dinner.”

“God, I’m starving,” Greg replied. “’You got much in?”

John snorted.

“You’re welcome to root around the fridge.”

Twenty minutes later, the three of them were sitting around John’s small dining table sharing the spoils from John’s kitchen. It had looked pretty hopeless to him, but Lestrade had immediately appeared enthusiastic, so John stood back and let him get on with it, eventually presenting them all with some pasta cooked up with leftover vegetables, cheese and bacon. As John buckled Rosie into her booster seat, he gave his friend an amused look.

“What?” demanded Lestrade, frowning. “I’m divorced and I work stupid hours. This is how I eat.”

John certainly wasn’t going to argue, and Rosie was clearly very happy, too – not only with her meal, but with having the extra company at dinner.

“Rosie and Daddy see William?” she asked, examining a fried mushroom suspiciously.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” John told her. “It’s a bit late. He’ll probably be in bed. Tomorrow, though, after you’ve both had a sleep – I’m sure he’d loved to play with you.”

He exchanged glances with Greg.

“What do you think’s going on up there?”

Greg shrugged, spearing a piece of pasta.

 “They’ll work it out,” he said, blithely. “Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man. You know, it was Molly who alerted Mycroft about what was going on?”

“How?”

“You’ll like this,” Greg said, taking a swig of water. “Apparently, she ‘ad a code worked out with Mycroft – a nursery rhyme, or lullaby, or something. Managed to call him by hiding her phone behind one of Will’s soft toys; pretended that she was singing to Will. Even Sherlock ‘ad no idea.”

John smiled. He should have known that Molly would plan for this kind of thing, that she understood enough about Sherlock’s past to weave these precautions and emergency measures into her life. And god help any person who tried to lay a finger on William.

Still, he knew she wasn’t invulnerable – far from it. She could put on a show of resolve when she needed to, but Molly’s true feelings were never far below the surface, and she had an uncanny ability to draw out other people’s. Sherlock had been helpless to it, and John knew it was one of the reasons his friend had found himself falling in love with her. 

“What – ah - what was the deal with them anyway?” Greg asked, chasing a tomato around his plate. “Sherlock and Adler? I mean, were they…? Or is the answer going to put me off my food?”

“Rosie, don’t take Uncle Greg’s bacon,” John said, suddenly noticing his daughter’s wandering little fingers.

“The best bit, isn’t it, Rosie?” Greg replied with a wink, pushing his plate towards her. “I’m only eating the veggies because your dad’s a doctor and he tells me I’m s’posed to.” 

Rosie gave John a vindicated look, and plucked the biggest bit of bacon she could find from Lestrade’s plate.

“Anyway, the answer is I actually don’t know,” John said, returning to the original conversation. “I mean, I think they…maybe. I mean, it seems _likely_. There was definitely _something_ going on between them during that case, but god knows if it was anything you or I would recognise as sex.”

Greg snorted.

“Not sure I would recognise sex in any form these days.”

John laughed. He almost added “me neither”, but stopped himself at the last second. Didn’t seem right; might start a conversation he wasn’t sure he wanted to have – either with Lestrade or anyone else.

Greg got up to retrieve the leftovers from the pan, and John dug into his jacket for his phone. Quickly, he fired off a text.

**Just eating with Rosie and Greg. How’s the family? – JW**

A response came through within seconds.

**As well as can be expected – SH**

This was followed by a quick afterthought.

**Thank you, John – SH**

John typed a response.

**What about you? – JW**

The pause this time was a little longer. He could picture Sherlock lingering over his response, possibly typing, deleting and re-typing.

**Thankful. Chastened. In awe of my fiancée – SH**

John smiled slightly at this.

**I’m here if you need anything – JW**

The reply came through as Greg was doling out the remaining pasta onto their plates.

**I know. Thank you. Spend tonight with Rosie – I’ll speak to you tomorrow – SH**

John understood completely where this was coming from; the need for space and time for conversations to happen as they needed to. After learning of Mary’s past – after that initial period where (he was ashamed to think of it now) he could barely even look at her – they had needed the same. Some evenings had been almost completely silent, and that silence was sometimes unbearable, but John understood that you needed to create the right circumstances for the words to be given life, for any dialogue to begin.

As they finished up their meal, he wondered whether he should have asked Sherlock about Sherrinford, too. It was a stark reflection on the kind of day they’d had when developments with Eurus Holmes could only claim second-billing.

“Got anything for dessert?” Greg asked, sitting back and giving his stomach an appreciative pat. Rosie immediately copied him, laughing at the face the detective was pulling.

“You’ve seen the fridge and cupboards,” John replied, eyebrows raised. “Might be some ice-cream in the freezer. Sherlock always buys too much.”

As Lestrade got up from his seat again, John was aware that he could hear footsteps on the stairs; somebody coming away from the upstairs flat. His hearing was tuned to Mrs Hudson’s distinctive slipper-clad shuffle, so this had to be Mycroft. The sound stopped, but John didn’t hear the sound of the front door being opened.

Instead, there was a knock at his own door.

When he opened the door, there indeed was Sherlock’s brother, an uncharacteristically hesitant quality to his demeanour. Social calls were about as enjoyable to Mycroft as small-talk was to Sherlock.

“Mycroft, hi,” John said, brightly. “Are you, er…coming in?”

Mycroft looked a little surprised for a moment, but quickly regained composure.

“For a moment, perhaps,” he replied. “I won’t keep you from…whatever it is you were doing.”

“Finishing dinner,” John supplied. “Greg’s here, too.”

“Hi!” called Greg, leaning out of the kitchen with a spoon in his mouth.

“We’re having ice-cream,” John explained, feeling faintly ridiculous, as though Mycroft Holmes had caught them all in the middle of having a dolls’ tea party.

“D’you want some?” Greg asked. “It’s good stuff, not cheap.”

Mycroft looked at Lestrade with the patience most people would reserve for a toddler or someone with a recent head injury.

“I’m quite fine,” Mycroft replied, with what John assumed was supposed to be a pleasant smile. “I just thought you might appreciate me supplying you with an update.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” John replied, placing a small bowl of ice-cream in front of Rosie. “Thanks for coming down.”

“Mike,” Rosie commented, through a mouthful of dessert, apparently just stating a fact.

“Good evening, Rosie,” Mycroft replied, with a slight nod that amused John for some reason. “I trust you’ve had an agreeable day?”

John glanced across at Greg, and both men exchanged a look.

“She went to soft play this morning, then Baby Ballet this afternoon,” John found himself replying, as though it were essential that the British Government was aware of his two-year old daughter’s activity schedule.

“Ah, ballet,” Mycroft nodded, thoughtfully. “Very good.”

Now was probably not the time to ask whether one or both of the Holmes boys were made to attend ballet classes as children, but John made a mental note to check it with Sherlock next time the situation allowed. If only just to see his reaction.

“How’s everybody ‘olding up?” Greg asked, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

“Bearably,” Mycroft replied, moving to clasp his hands behind his back. “As you know, the situation was resolved before anyone involved came to physical harm, but I fear that my brother-”

“Is in the dog ‘ouse?” Lestrade put in.

“Has learnt a harsh lesson,” Mycroft concluded. “It’s only to be expected. After all, he is still rather new to all this.”

_He’s got a good teacher, though_ , John thought.

“I have no doubt that he and Dr Hooper have a lot to discuss,” Sherlock’s brother continued. “But for now, I believe that rest is the primary necessity for all concerned.”

“Sounds like Molly did well,” John said, helping Rosie to divide her ice-cream into smaller mouthfuls.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “I am full of admiration. It was a system we devised some time ago, in the hope, of course, that we would never have cause to use it. Not even my brother knew about it – that was for Molly and William’s safety. She was well aware that there were things Sherlock had done – people he had _engaged_ with – that could lead to her and my nephew being used as a bargaining chip. There was never going to be any ‘clean break’ for them, as they say. I suppose this was her first real test of living in the aftermath of Sherlock’s past.”

“Well, I’d say she passed,” Lestrade said, setting his bowl down on the table. “Good on her. Hope Sherlock’s not blamin’ ‘imself too much?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You know my brother,” he replied.

“Mm,” John replied, with a small nod. There was beating yourself up - and then there was the Sherlock approach to self-reproach.

“What about Adler?” Greg asked, folding his arms across his chest. “We can charge her over what ‘appened today, but it’s gonna be tricky to prove that she actually intended to hurt ‘em. Hard to go into all that without talking about blackmail, too.”

John understood Lestrade’s point. He knew Sherlock would do anything to keep Molly’s name out of the courts, and Adler might well choose to tell all in order to take Sherlock and Molly down with her.

“We’ll review today’s events,” Mycroft replied, thoughtfully. “But just in case the charges prove problematic, I have managed to persuade some of my diplomatic contacts that it would be in their interests to reinstate Irene Adler’s international arrest warrant. In which case, she could find herself facing a quite dizzying array of charges.”

“Where?” John asked.

Mycroft smiled serenely.

“Take your pick,” he said. “If she’s lucky, Switzerland and Estonia are on the table. If not quite so fortunate, I believe my counterparts in Turkey, Morocco and Qatar are all interested in a conversation with Ms Adler.”

“Sounds like she might miss the wedding, then,” John replied, tilting his head to one side.

Mycroft gave a short, wry laugh.

“Yes, well, you’ll both have to look elsewhere for a plus-one,” he replied.

“Rosie’s my plus-one,” John said.

At this, Lestrade pulled a face.

“Sherlock said _I_ was your plus-one,” he said. “Something to do with keeping the numbers even – and the fact that I ‘aven’t been on a second date in five months. Though god knows ‘ow ‘e knows that.”

“Well, I bloody hope you’re _not_ my plus-one,” John said with a snort.

“Oh, I dunno. I once dragged up for a Met Hallowe’en party and I reckon I looked pretty decent – think Anderson was a bit conflicted,” Greg grinned. “And speakin’ of weddings, can we count you in for Sherlock’s stag do, Mycroft?”

John could see Mycroft visibly stiffen at this question; he blinked a few times in rapid succession. (He’d been to Mycroft’s excuse for a stag night - although Mycroft would never have deigned to call it such. Essentially, it was a whiskey-tasting in Mycroft’s drawing room - some small-batch distiller had travelled down from Aberdeenshire for the occasion - where the drams on offer were so small that John felt certain he was still under the legal driving limit at the end of the night.)  

“Alas, pub crawls and public humiliation aren’t really my province, so I may need to bow out,” Mycroft replied. “I trust you’ll both give Sherlock a… _memorable_ evening.”

“Well, if he actually _remembers_ it, we won’t ‘ave done a very good job,” Lestrade replied, just as his phone rang. “Excuse me, gents.”

“You feel confident there’ll still be a wedding in a fortnight, then?” John asked, as Greg stepped into the kitchen. Sherlock and Molly were the most steadfast, loving couple that he knew – but John knew how it felt to have your foundations rocked, to be forced to question everything you felt to be certain.

“I’m sure of it,” Mycroft replied. “Unless, of course, our mother and father blunder upon some other inventive method of imperiling the occasion.”

John smiled, nodded.

“I understand there’ll be a police presence outside the building overnight,” Mycroft continued, with a small cough. “And some of my people will be placed discreetly, too. Purely as a precaution.”

John glanced at Rosie, who was face-down in her bowl, attempting to lick it clean of melted ice-cream.

“Thank you,” he told Mycroft. “I’m sure Sherlock appreciates everything you’ve done today, too.”

John caught a quirk of a smile flicker across Mycroft’s face as he, too, spotted what Rosie was up to; Sherlock would no doubt say that they were kindred spirits. The older man recovered, nodding his acknowledgement.

“What he requires now does not come quite so easily to me,” Mycroft replied, carefully. “Therefore, I hope you will consider calling on him tomorrow? I suspect…no, I _know_ that he will be grateful.”

“Yeah,” John replied, as he tucked a strand of hair behind Rosie’s ear. “’Course I will.”

After exchanging goodnights, Mycroft showed his way out of 221C, leaving John to begin tidying up the table and gather his energy for Rosie’s bath time. Shortly after Mycroft’s departure, he heard Mrs Hudson creep down the stairs and into her own flat, the familiar rumble of LBC from her kitchen radio following soon after. As he moved around his home, stacking the dishes on the counter, picking discarded toys off the floor, he listened out for sounds coming from 221B. He didn’t know what he might be expecting, and couldn’t decide whether it was a good sign or a bad one that he couldn’t hear raised voices or objects being slammed around. It was the silent, brooding arguments with Mary that had always got to him most – they made him feel powerless, frustrated, wrong-footed. Sherlock and Molly had had their fair share of stand-up rows – particularly in the early months of her pregnancy, when hormones were haywire and Sherlock was still adjusting to being one half of a pair – but it had been a while. That said, John would have some sympathy if Molly needed to let Sherlock have it with both barrels tonight.

Carrying Rosie through to the bathroom, he reflected that he should probably try to get an early night – help might be needed with picking up the pieces in the morning.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude with John, Greg, Rosie and Mycroft wasn't in the original plan, but I wanted (needed?!) some breathing space before diving back in with Sherlock and Molly. Hope you still enjoyed!


	12. Chapter 12

Mrs Hudson had stayed a lot longer than Sherlock expected her to. Initially, she was just fretting of course, fussing around them to reassure herself that they were all okay, but she then insisted that she make them both something to eat. Sherlock had started to say that they were fine (he certainly had no appetite whatsoever), but he was surprised to hear Molly accept her offer of help. As they exchanged weighty glances, Sherlock wondered whether Molly was looking for a temporary buffer, something to postpone the inevitable confrontation coming their way.

He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to take Molly in his arms and have her tell him that everything was fine, to hear her murmur that she loved him and forgave him, and to never hear mention of Irene Adler’s name again.

Molly always forgave him, always - even when, in the past, he’d deliberately set out to hurt her. But then he’d never put their son’s life in such direct danger before.

While Mrs Hudson donned her apron and started digging packets out of cupboards, and Molly prepared something for William, Sherlock sat with his son sleeping soundly on his chest. Was it possible for babies to suffer from shock? William had dropped into a deep sleep, his cheek pressed against Sherlock’s shirt front, and there didn’t seem to be any waking him. Sherlock wondered whether  _he_  might possibly be in shock, too, such was the overwhelming heaviness in his limbs - yes, he’d experienced grave personal danger before, faced situations where he had reconciled himself to death, but then he’d never considered his life particularly valuable. His life  _did_  hold value now; there were people who actually needed him – not as a brilliant mind, he realised, but apparently for what he could offer as a man. That was what Molly had always seen in him.

And valuable didn’t even begin to describe the figure in his arms – William was beyond words. No wonder he felt a roil in his stomach when he thought about the man shot through the window of the building over the road.

Adler had meant it; it had been no idle threat. She had warped the game beyond recognition.

Mycroft had stayed for a while, ostensibly to ensure the necessary protective measures were being put in place. But in between his phone calls in the hallway, Sherlock could tell that his usually unflappable brother had been shaken by what had happened. Some of Mycroft’s ‘people’, Sherlock surmised, would no longer have a job in the morning.

Few words were exchanged between them, but before Mycroft left, Sherlock caught his big brother looking at William. He looked as nauseous as Sherlock felt, and, bizarrely, it made Sherlock experience an unexpected and peculiar rush of brotherly affection.

He watched Molly as she moved around the kitchen, smiling politely, patiently, when Mrs Hudson clutched her arm or squeezed her waist. She wasn’t crying any longer, but all the signs were still there – battle scars of a life lived with Sherlock Holmes. God, he loved her so much – but that love wasn’t a force-field he could place around her, however much he wanted it to be.  

From time to time, she would look across at him, too. Part of that was checking up on their son’s wellbeing (like him, she probably couldn’t bear to take her eyes off William for long), but Sherlock assumed she wanted to gauge how he was dealing with this, too, the flightpath of his emotions.

Mrs Hudson left not long after Mycroft, giving them both instructions as to what she’d left on the hob, and making them promise that they would come to her if they needed anything.

And then it was just the three of them.

“Do…do you want to eat?” Molly asked, her fingers playing with the hem of her shirt.

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replied, his voice thick from not having spoken for some time. “Maybe later, I suppose.”

“We should wake him,” Molly replied, moving around the kitchen counter and into the living room. “He needs to eat, and if we don’t wake him now he won’t want to go down later.”

Sherlock nodded, splaying his fingers across William’s back to support him as he stood. William twisted in his sleep before settling his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. Molly came towards him, moving to take their son from him and into her arms, a motion they had been through hundreds of times during the nine months of William’s existence.

Sherlock swallowed.

“Molly…”

She closed her eyes, shook her head quickly.

“Not…not now,” she replied quietly. “We need…”

He understood. She was right; sorting out this mess and dealing with the immediate needs of their son were incompatible with each other. William would learn one day about the fallibility of adults, the shortcomings of his parents (well, one of them), but he’d been through enough that afternoon without witnessing his parents’ open wounds.

William was fretful and groggy when he was eventually woken, screwing his face into Sherlock’s shirt and clinging like a limpet to a rock. On hearing Molly’s voice, he changed tack and jabbed his little arms out to her, wriggling his legs to be set free. In amongst the tears, Sherlock very clearly heard a new addition to their son’s vocabulary - the word ‘mama’. He automatically looked for Molly’s response, and saw the astonishment on her face, her eyes immediately brimming with emotion.

“Come here,” she whispered to William as she took hold of him. Once he was in her arms, she kissed him hard, murmuring to him over and over how clever he was.

Sherlock thought about how easy it would be to just wrap his arms around both of them, but he needed Molly’s invitation, and they weren’t there yet.

Molly disappeared into the flat while Sherlock gave William his dinner, emerging only afterwards to tell him that she had started the bath running. He’d thought about suggesting they skip the bath (far from helping William wind down before bedtime, it only seemed to make him livelier), but he understood that Molly was trying to keep everything as normal as possible. For William, but probably for her as well. Not pretending that nothing had happened, but taking control again, restoring order.

Out of the need for something to do, Sherlock circled the living room while Molly was bathing William, making a vague attempt to tidy things up, trying not to second-guess the conversation they would have, trying not to panic that the woman he loved might walk in from the hallway and hand back her engagement ring.  

_You’re a drama queen_ , he heard John’s voice tell him.

But it wasn’t so far-fetched, was it? Everyone had a breaking point. He assumed Molly must, too, even though her particular mettle seemed to be suffused with incredible elasticity.

In the end, she appeared quietly in the doorway, her presence making him start. She held William, who was dressed in the soft, plaid pyjamas that Sherlock had chosen himself on a spur-of-the-moment detour into a baby boutique; his curls were damp and slightly flattened, and he sucked tiredly but placidly on his fist.

“He’s come to say goodnight,” Molly said, without making eye contact.

“Okay,” Sherlock nodded, taking in the sight of his perfect family unit. How could he have been so stupid as to put any of this in jeopardy?

He bent to kiss William’s head, stroking his fingers over his scalp and down to his cheek, inhaling his son’s signature fragrance of milk, baby shampoo and talcum powder. William loved to clap his hands in the talcum powder, and Sherlock could still see traces of it in William’s hair – also on Molly’s cheek, but he wouldn’t allow himself to sweep it away with his thumb as he longed to do.

And then he waited.

Twenty minutes later, Molly returned to the living room. Immediately, Sherlock could see that she had been crying again – not a lot, but he imagined that sitting with William in the darkness of the nursery probably brought everything to the surface again.

Sherlock got to his feet but went no further. Should he go to her? Would she want that? He wanted to sink into her, to tangle his arms with hers until there was no space between them, but Molly’s arms clung tightly around her body, giving off a very clear signal that required no deductive reasoning.

“Will went down okay?” he said. It was a facsimile of the exchanges that often passed between them at this time of the day.

She nodded, clearing her throat quietly.

“Yeah. I…I wasn’t sure that he would, he seemed too wide awake, but…I…I guess he’s just a bit, you know, unsettled.”

“Molly…”

He heard her sigh, and felt his whole body tense.

“You know, I always thought that something like this could happen,” she said, and Sherlock knew they were into it now. “But I feel like I can be forgiven for not anticipating this. I mean, one of the things you can usually rely on in my job is never having a conversation with one of your medical subjects – especially  _after_  they’ve been on the slab.”

“That wasn’t her,” Sherlock replied, immediately realising just how moronic that sounded.

“No, I get that now,” she said, with a short, wry laugh. “You lied to me that day. And I…I get that, too. I mean, it wasn’t a nice thing to do to me as a friend, or a great way to treat someone who was doing you a favour on Christmas Eve, but I know that you probably had your reasons.”

Sherlock instantly had a flashback to that cold, December day. Molly in a red Christmas jumper, her hair brushed out of the up-do she’d been wearing at the Baker Street drinks. He had been genuinely surprised to find her at the hospital, and acknowledged that her presence – the unlikeliness of it, the reasons behind it – had distracted him while they viewed the body-that-wasn’t-Irene-Adler. Looking back, it had been a moment of significance between them, almost more so than the gut-wrenchingly awful exchange over the Christmas gift.

“I did,” Sherlock replied. “At…at least I thought I did.”

“You were protecting her,” Molly nodded.

“She was in danger,” he said. “Of sorts.”

“She meant something to you,” Molly said, taking a shaky breath. “I mean, obviously she meant something to you – it sounds like you risked your own life to save hers.”

“It isn’t what you think it is,” Sherlock replied, willing her to look at him, properly look at him.

And then she did, her eyes flicking up and conveying all of the hurt that he feared he had inflicted on her.

“And what  _do_  I think it is, Sherlock?”

“We didn’t…I never slept with her.”

At that, Molly shut her eyes and shook her head again, as she bit down on her lip.

“God, Sherlock, I don’t…I don’t care about that,” she said, her fingers worrying at her watch strap. “I don’t care whether or not you ever slept with her, I’m not…I’m really not that petty.”

He cast his eyes to the floor.

“I know you’re not,” he said quietly. “I know that, but I still…I want you to know anyway."

He was on the verge of saying something else, but stopped himself. Probably something for another day, if at all.

“Sherlock, I know you love me, I do,” Molly continued. “And I honestly wouldn’t have cared if there _had_ been something between you, or even whether I ever found out. That’s…it would have been your business. People have pasts – I mean, I do, too. But you knew she was alive, and you didn’t tell me, and I have no idea who you were protecting by doing that. If it was to protect me, well, I think we both see that it didn’t work, but I’ve got this horrible feeling, Sherlock, that it was to protect her.”

“It wasn’t,” he replied. “I just…I made a mistake, Molly. It didn’t seem important.”

“But you were in contact with her.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Not since you and I…not since William was conceived.”

Molly nodded, blinking rapidly.

“But  _she’s_  contacted  _you_ ,” she said. “ _Recently_. And you didn’t tell me. I could have…I don’t know, I could have been more prepared – Sherlock, I could have helped you.”

“I wanted to handle it,” he heard himself admitting. “But I confess that I completely underestimated the threat that Irene Adler posed. I thought it was mere mischief-making on her part, an attempt to regain my attention. I never should have let it come to this.”

“Your brother knew,” Molly said, looking down at her hands. “Who else? Did John know?”

Sherlock could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he nodded.

“Yes. He knew she was alive, and he urged me to tell you, both about that and about her attempts to contact me. I should have listened to him, I realise that now.”

He watched as Molly brought her hands up to her face before dragging them both back through her hair.

“It makes me…you know, I can’t help but wonder now about all the other things that I don’t know,” she said, with a melancholy smile that twisted violently at Sherlock’s stomach.

He couldn’t help but move towards her now, willing to risk her rejection on the off-chance that it wouldn’t come.

“Molly, there’s nothing,” he said, seeing her eyes flutter shut as he closed the distance between them. “You know the worst of me. You know all that I’ve been and everything that I’ve done, and you know that you can ask me anything, too. I never intended for secrets to exist between us, and I’m sorry – I’m so very, very sorry that my actions, my decisions, put you and William in danger. It will haunt me for a long time.”

She pulled her sleeve over her hand, using it to wipe a fresh tear. She blinked, willing any further tears away.

“Things have to be different,” she said. “I know you didn’t plan for this life, Sherlock, but this is the one we have now. It’s probably never going to be normal – it certainly hasn’t been so far - but I wouldn’t want that. I love our life - but we have to be equals in it.”

“We _are_ , Molly.”

“Not while you think there are things that I don’t need to know, or that I’m somehow not strong enough to handle.”

Sherlock felt a sharp sting at the bridge of his nose; his own tears weren’t too far away.

“It has nothing to do with your strength, Molly,” he said, swallowing the thickness. “How could it? After everything you’ve done for me, and what I’ve seen you do for others? You saved my life four years ago, and I knew then that you were the only person who could help me. You gave Rosie the love and stability and protection she needed when John was unable to cope, even though it meant forcing aside your own grief. And today, right here in our home, you saved our son’s life. I should have been able to protect him, but you did what I was incapable of doing – and even though it was brilliant and brave, it didn’t surprise me for a second because I have never underestimated you, Molly; because if there’s anything that is equal to your passion, it is your strength.”

She sniffed, her shoulders rising and dropping as she let out a breath.

“Then _why_?” she said, her words choked.

“Because I wanted to deal with it!”

It came out more abruptly, more desperately than Sherlock intended. As she waited on the continuation of his thoughts, he slowly reached out his hand to touch Molly’s fingers – they stilled but then, to his utter soaring joy, he felt them wrap around his own.

“Because I…Molly, there are so many things from my past of which I am thoroughly ashamed, that continually make me…make me feel as though I’m not worthy of you or fit to be a father to William. It wasn’t this that prevented me from telling you that Irene Adler was alive – the truth is I honestly considered it to be insignificant. Whatever diversion she may have provided me with no longer held any importance. But when I realised that she was trying to make contact again, and John told me that I should tell you, all I could see was that I’d be handing you another reason to think less of me, to perhaps…question the choices you’ve made.”

He watched as Molly blinked, bit down on her lip; her eyes rapidly searched his. Then, she did something completely surprising. Taking a step towards him, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck; his hands hovered for a moment before taking their natural place at her waist. Sherlock felt the pace of his heart quicken, felt a little woozy as he heard Molly mumble something against his chest.

“W-what…?” he stumbled.

She drew back a little so she could look directly up at him. One hand left his shoulder to cradle his cheek instead.

“I said,” Molly repeated, smiling through tears. “I said you’re a bloody idiot!”

Sherlock frowned for a moment, while he tried to reconcile her words with the embrace and the tender way she was looking at him.

“I…yes, I’m well aware,” he replied. “B-but what does that mean?”

Molly sighed, tracing her thumb over his cheekbone.

“It means that I love you, and you’re stuck with my choices,” she smiled. “But it also means that this…this mindset, this idea you have that you’re somehow not deserving of me, has got to stop. Because that’s not equality either, not if you’re putting me on some kind of pedestal.”

“Mm,” he nodded, pulling her a little closer and adopting a solemn tone. “That _would_ be dangerous. You have very poor balance, Molly.”

This earnt him a playful jab in the ribs, and a smile that lit up his heart.

“And you need to promise me that you won’t try to deal with everything on your own,” she continued. “I mean, I may not know _baritsu,_ and the last self-defense class I took was in my first year at uni, but I’m not completely helpless.”

Sherlock smiled. This woman he loved was bloody strong-minded, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I know that very well,” he said with a small smile. “Although it’s _bartitsu_ , Molly. A martial arts method developed in the late Victorian era from a range of Japanese fighting styles.”

She raised her eyebrows in response, a tiny smirk playing on her lips.

“It’s really _bartitsu_?”

“Yesss. Something amusing about that?”

“A bit,” she said, tilting her head to one side. “Although I mainly just like watching you practice first thing in the morning with no shirt on.”

He snorted, seeing Molly’s eyes sparkle in the low light of their Baker Street living room. Sherlock had never sought to feel desired by anyone, but he never grew tired of knowing that he had affect Molly. Two years ago, he would have been like a predator doggedly chasing its prey back into the ground or to the point of death – he couldn’t have rested until he personally secured the cell door on someone like Irene Adler – but now…Molly was right. No more wasted time.

He licked his thumb and slowly he reached out to wipe away a mascara smear from Molly’s cheek. She caught his hand there and held it, moving her free hand to bring his face to hers. Sherlock felt their breaths mingle for a second - heard a tiny, breathy sigh from Molly’s lips – before their mouths came together. The kiss was slow, gentle, and Sherlock felt his heartrate begin to steady as he revelled in a feeling that was so familiar, but which nonetheless always felt like a small miracle.

Molly’s arms stretched around his neck again, pulling him closer until she was flush against him. She deepened the kiss and Sherlock followed, his hands pressing at her lower back to keep her tightly in place. He heard Molly hum something into his mouth and he reluctantly broke away to let her speak.

“I, um, I had particular plans in mind for when I got home this afternoon, for when William was in bed,” she said, her fingers twisting gently in the curls at the nape of his neck. “I’d like to get back to them, if that’s okay with you?”

His brain seemed to take a few moments to catch up, and it was only when Molly’s serious expression broke into a wicked smile that Sherlock cottoned on.

“So…you had a to-do list and I was on it?” he replied, his own mouth quirking into a smile.

“You’ve been on my to-do list since the day I met you,” Molly grinned. “And besides, I’m not in the mood to let that woman ruin a perfectly good plan."

And at that, with one swift motion, Sherlock hooked his hands underneath Molly’s thighs and lifted her; she immediately wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, wriggling until she was snugly around him. She wasted no time in initiating another kiss, and, lips locked, Sherlock somehow managed to blindly navigate them from the living room out into the hallway, and finally into their bedroom (bruised elbows from doorframes were a small price to pay).

He settled Molly on the bed, but she kept him locked in place in the cradle of her thighs while she made a start on his shirt. When he’d imagined how this evening would end, this was the one scenario that seemed far-fetched, but…

_Stop analysing!_ he ordered his brain. Although probably not an issue for much longer, given the current direction of blood-flow.

It was unhurried and languorous in a way that they hadn’t really made time for recently, and Sherlock was happy that Molly was setting this pace. And if this was partly Molly wanting to reassert her claim on him, he didn’t have a problem with that – he was happy to be claimed. As clothes were scattered to far-flung corners of the bedroom, Sherlock followed Molly’s lead and moved up the bed to cover her body with his own.

Bracing himself on one elbow, he used his other hand to carefully move some loose strands of hair away from Molly’s face, needing to see her completely as they came together.

“Molly…”

“Hmm?”

“Will you marry me?”

There was – unsurprisingly – confusion in her eyes, as her fingers stilled on his shoulder.

“Um, you know you already asked me that? Today hasn’t, you know, changed anything.”

She looked so beautiful, her skin flushed pink and just the tiniest glimmers of perspiration across her cheeks and at her hairline.

“No, I mean _now_ ,” he clarified. “Tomorrow. I’m sure Mycroft could get us a special license or…or I could book the sleeper train up to Scotland. Just you, me and William. I want you to be my wife, Molly; I’ve waited too long.”

Her fingers travelled from his shoulder to his temples, threading into his hair, while her other hand caressed the taut skin over his ribs.

“It’s incredibly tempting,” she smiled. “But John nearly had a nervous breakdown on Oxford Street while looking for a dress for Rosie, and he and Greg will kill me if they don’t get to give you a stag do.”

Sherlock let out a groan of protest.

“And besides,” Molly added, as he dipped his head to kiss her neck. “Your mum and dad would miss Will in his outfit.”

Sherlock froze, then slowly lifted his head to look at her through narrowed eyes.

“ _What_ outfit?” he challenged.

He could see Molly was suppressing a laugh, which was not a promising sign.

“I could show you,” she replied, smiling. “But it would mean you getting off me, me getting off the bed, and then you having the kind of reaction that I’m pretty sure would ruin the, um, mood for the rest of the night.”

Sherlock sighed.

“It’s really that bad, isn’t it?”

Molly smirked.

“It’s memorable,” she replied. “But our son looks cute in anything – and nothing. Think he takes after his dad in that way.”

Molly rolled her hips beneath him and Sherlock heard himself groan, but this time very much not in protest. His bloody parents could wait until another day.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for their lovely comments up to this point! 
> 
> After the drama of the previous chapters, this one brings with it a healthy dose of fluff - I tried to include a bit of narrative progression, too, but in all honesty, it's still pretty fluff-heavy (if that isn't an oxymoron). Hope you enjoy!

As she gradually surfaced to a state of consciousness, Molly could hear her son exercising his lungs in his room upstairs, although not, as normal, bawling for attention from. Instead, he seemed to be cycling through his modest vocabulary – ‘da-da’ (of course), his name for Rosie, his approximations of ‘cat’, but now also a repeated refrain of ‘mum-mum-mum’. He sounded quite happy, and it prompted Molly to turn her head to check the alarm clock.

7.06am.

She had to check again in case, in the low light, that seven was actually a five - but it seemed to be correct. Molly smiled – no wonder she actually felt semi-human for once.

Content though William sounded, he was probably hungry, and it made sense to try to pre-empt the squawking that would eventually result once he realised. Easier said than done, though. Molly smiled as she peered down her nose at the sight that greeted her. After the pretty spectacular make-up sex of the night before, Sherlock had kissed her goodnight and stayed up a while longer (probably checking in with his brother, although he didn’t say so). At some point, he had crawled back under the covers and was now spread-eagled face-down on the mattress, his bare arm slung around her waist and his head – well, using her breasts as a pillow. No wonder she was so bloody boiling hot.

Relaxing back on her own pillow, Molly lifted her hand and gently ran her fingers through the mass of dark curls that tickled her nose. Sherlock hadn’t showered before coming to bed, and she had to admit – in a primal kind of a way - to liking the slightly sweaty tang that stuck to his skin. Maybe it was a basic pheromone thing:  _come over here and get me pregnant._ Well, not that he wasn’t trying on that score.

The hair-stroking thing was doing nothing to wake him (a double-whammy of shock and shagging), so Molly resorted instead to gently poking her fiancé in the ribs with her other hand. Well, it started off gentle, but as each attempt failed, she had to up the ante.

  
Eventually…

“W-ha? Ethylene glycol in the elderflower cordial…” Sherlock drawled into her chest.

Molly giggled, and he slowly lifted his head and eventually focused two bleary eyes at her.

“’Morning,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, making no attempt to move from his comfortable spot, his fingers creeping up the inside of her vest top.

“Did, um, did your subconscious just solve a case?” she smiled.

He looked up at her, frowning thoughtfully.

“Possibly. That happens sometimes. Not sure which one, though,” he replied hoarsely. “Should probably write it down.”

He raised himself up on his elbow just enough to nuzzle Molly’s nose and coax her into a good-morning kiss. It was warm and deep, and she couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock was gently nudging her knees apart in order to press his hips against hers again. His mouth dipped to her neck, and Molly felt his low, distinctly-amorous hum against her skin. She played along for a few moments, waiting for Sherlock’s brain – and his hearing – to kick in.

He paused, mid-kiss.

“What’s that noise?”

Molly sniggered.

“That,” she smiled, kissing his nose. “Is our son.”

Sherlock frowned, and she could already feel things starting to cool off in the pelvis area.

“What’s he  _doing_?”

“Um, singing,” Molly smiled. “I think.”

“Sounds like my father when he’s had a couple of whiskies and tries to do Gilbert and Sullivan, but can’t remember any of the words” Sherlock replied.

“He’s pleased with himself,” Molly said, as Sherlock reluctantly rolled off her, adding with a wink, “Can’t imagine where he gets that from.”

Sherlock snorted, then quickly lifting the hem of her top and planting a rasping kiss on Molly’s ribcage, which set her off in a peal of laughter. She held him at arm’s length, giggling, as the situation quickly became a tickling-cum-wrestling match – but then Sherlock stopped, stilled for a moment as he leaned over her. His expression was one of affection mixed with something else that Molly couldn’t quite place.

“I  _am_  sorry,” he said, a quiet intensity to his tone.

She looked up at him, saw the worry lines gathering on his brow.

“I know,” she replied softly, smiling. Molly knew that Sherlock was always quicker to forgive other people than he was himself, and suspected that it wouldn’t matter what she said and how much she reassured him, he would carry this with him until the point he felt able to let it go.

“I love you, Molly.”

His solemn tone seemed to bore a route straight to her heart. Those words got her every time, despite the fact that they exchanged them every day and in a variety of contexts; it still felt like a wondrous thing, a private miracle. From the first time he’d said it to her, during that nightmarish phone call, it had always felt like a code or cipher; they each held half of the data, and neither could complete it alone.

“I love you, too. Always.”

She curled her fingers around the back of his neck to pull him down for another kiss.

At that point, there was another interjection from upstairs.

“Tat, tat, tat!”

Molly and Sherlock exchanged looks as they pulled away from each other.

“Has Toby got in there?” Molly queried, recognising William’s word for ‘cat’.

“Bloody fur-ball,” Sherlock growled, reluctantly rolling off Molly. “I still maintain that he’d be happier downstairs with Hudders.”

Molly jabbed his leg in protest, then pulled back the covers to climb out of bed.

“I’ll go and get him,” she said, stretching and attempting to iron out the aches and kinks in her body (maybe it was time to start doing warm-ups before sex?). “Did you notice something, though?”

“Hm?”

She smiled, biting down on her bottom lip.

“It’s after seven. He slept through the night.”

Sherlock’s face adopted a sceptical expression.

“You didn’t get up to him at all?”

“Nope,” she grinned.

“I take back everything I said about God being a ludicrous fantasy,” Sherlock replied solemnly. “He is clearly very, very real.”

Molly smiled. Although he wouldn’t admit it, Sherlock’s own peculiar sleeping habits had been turned upside down by his son’s. Staying up all night while entrenched in a case was just not an option when his freedom to catch on sleep at a later point was never guaranteed. He had turned his nose up when Molly suggested that for his own benefit – and John’s – he might want to keep more regular working hours where he could, but things _were_ gradually moving that way.

William was still singing and babbling as Molly approached his bedroom door. Things fell silent when he could obviously see the door opening, but when her son eventually set eyes on her, he shrieked with delight, as though it was completely incredible that  _she_  could be the person coming into his room.

He was standing up in his cot, holding onto the side with his plush bee in one fist, and when Molly made her approach, he started bouncing excitedly. He worked one sturdy leg against the side of the cot, attempting to climb out to her (it probably wouldn’t be long before he learned to make his escape, which was going to pose any number of problems).

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she smiled, leaning down to scoop him out. “Daddy and I have been listening to your lovely singing.”

She kissed William’s irresistible round cheek and cuddled him close. A menace though he had been in the past for not sleeping during the night, it didn’t change the fact that his morning greeting was still one of her favourite moments in any given day. Maybe it was the events of the previous evening, maybe it was the daily changes that indicated that he was growing up, but Molly felt that usual surge of warmth even more acutely than normal.  

“Da-da-da!”

William was clearly very keen to get downstairs to where he knew the action tended to be, so Molly quickly changed his nappy and carried him back down to the bedroom. When they got there, Sherlock had put on a t-shirt and was sitting up in bed, consulting his phone; there was a cup of tea on her bedside table, and Toby was lying curled up on Sherlock’s feet. Molly smirked.

“Tat! Da-da!” William pronounced excitedly.

“Yes, William, we’re both here,” Sherlock replied. “Although I would find it slightly less hurtful if you hadn’t noticed us in that particular order.”

His feigned irritation didn’t last long, however. Molly handed William to Sherlock while she got back into bed, stealing a few moments to have a few very welcome sips of strong tea, while William launched affectionate attacks at a surprisingly-tolerant Toby, and Sherlock attempted to distract him with funny faces and with family photos on his phone. Molly sometimes wished that other people could see Sherlock this way, how wonderful and unguarded he was with his little boy, but there was also a selfish part that wanted to keep it to herself, wanted to maintain the unique level of privilege she’d been granted.

William eventually remembered that he was hungry, too, and Molly set her mug aside in order to feed him. He was getting to be so big and wriggly that it often felt like she was wrestling an uncooperative seal into position. Sherlock leaned down and kissed the top of William’s head before returning to his phone.

Molly was always trying to remind herself to enjoy moments like this; the moments of calm and togetherness, the moments when the universe seemed to be working with them rather than against them. The events of the previous day brought this even more sharply into focus than normal.

“Anything good?” Molly asked eventually. She could see that Sherlock was engrossed in his texts.

“Mycroft,” came his mumbled replied. “Just an…update.”

Molly nodded.

“Oh. Right.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, holding out the screen to her. “It looks as though Irene Adler’s days on native soil may be numbered. My brother is talking to counsel about which course of action stands the best chance of securing a prosecution.”

Molly sensed that neither of them wanted to talk about it any further, so they left it as that.

“Did you text John?” she asked instead. She had felt guilty that neither of them had gone down to see he and Rosie the previous night, but events had overtaken them.

“I’ll go and see him later,” Sherlock replied. “He isn’t at the clinic today. In fact…I think Lestrade may have some proper work for us.”

He was scanning a series of messages on his phone; Molly could just about make out a few blurry images that were probably crime scene photos.

“You do know that being a GP is considered ‘proper work’ by most people’s standards?” she said. “I don’t think people would train for ten years if it wasn’t.”

Sherlock smiled and raised an eyebrow, his eyes still on the screen.

“Well, as you know, Molly, I’m not ‘most people’, and besides, I consider it a compliment to John – he is wasted on a daily routine of acne, back pain and thrush.”

Molly rolled her eyes, as she maneuvered William into a seated position again and rearranged her pyjama top. Hunger temporarily sated, William immediately started to try and stand up, using her shoulder to brace himself.

“So what does Greg want your help with?” she asked, wrapping an arm around William’s waist to secure him.

She saw Sherlock blink, moisten his lips.

“It, ah, it looks like barely a five,” he said, without looking at her. “I’m sure Scotland Yard can manage without us today. John would probably appreciate a day off, anyway – he’s hardly seen Rosie this week.”

Molly nodded, but she could tell this wasn’t the whole truth.

“You know…” she began. “We’ll be alright, Sherlock. Me and William, I mean – if you go out.”

He sighed, clearly realising that she’d seen straight through him.

“It doesn’t feel right to leave you,” he replied, quietly. “It…it would feel as though nothing ever happened, that we’re just carrying on as normal.”

Molly smiled, and shuffled across the bed towards him. William was now happily sandwiched between them, using the headboard for purchase while he bounced up and down. Toby had fled the bed in terror, and was instead curled up on the chair by the window – or more precisely, on Sherlock’s blue dressing gown, which he had foolishly left on the chair.

“Sherlock, we  _are_  carrying on as normal,” she told him. “That’s what we have to do. There’s no immediate threat any longer and yeah, we have to be careful, but we’ve also got lives to get back to.”

“But you’ll stay at home today?” he asked, frowning, as William planted a hand on the top of his head for support. “I believe Lestrade is planning to station some officers outside.”

“I wasn’t going to, no,” Molly replied. “And after yesterday, I don’t particularly want to. I’d like to get outside again, and Will will be climbing the walls if we don’t – maybe literally. Mrs Hudson and I were going to take him to Kew Gardens for the day – we can take Rosie, too, if John wants to go with you.”

Sherlock set his phone back down on the bedside cabinet, instead holding out his hands for William who, on wobbly legs, swapped the headboard for his father’s thumbs.

“You’re sure?” Sherlock said.

Molly smiled, leaning over so she could rest her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’s your job,” she told him. “It’s what you do. We both know it’s not the same when you’re just going through stuff online and shouting things down the phone at Greg. You need to be, you know, on your hands and knees looking at dust patterns, or sniffing bodies for traces of unusual toxins.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, smirking.

“Is that what I do? Because now _I’m_ starting to question whether you should be marrying me.”

Molly grinned, thinking back to the day a few years ago when they had first solved crimes together – she hadn’t been kidding when she’d told him she’s had a wonderful time. Getting to see his thought-processes, witness his leaps of logic, watch how he took apart the evidence – in short, seeing Sherlock in his absolute element – had been completely enthralling. And it hadn’t helped with the probably-still-in-love-with-him problem she’d been wrestling with at the time.

 “It’s sexy,” she replied, waggling her eyebrows at him.

“Now I’m worried about _you_ ,” he smiled.

“Shut up,” Molly said, nudging him. “ _You_ love it when I talk about necrotic tissue samples and autosomal-dominant disorders, so you’re not one to talk.”

“I do,” Sherlock admitted. “And not just because I’m imaging you in only your lab-coat while you’re doing it.”

Molly flicked his ear playfully. At this particular moment, the three of them just staying in bed like this seemed like an ideal plan for the day. She watched as Sherlock looked intently at William; carefully, he withdrew one of his hands from their son, prompting a worried look from William as he swayed unsteadily for a moment. Once he had steadied himself, Sherlock slowly took away his other hand, leaving William standing sentry in the middle of their bed. Molly watched as the look of uncertainty on William’s face suddenly became one of absolute delight.

 “Yes, you’re doing it,” Sherlock told him, smiling his encouragement. “You’re standing all by yourself.”

The performance lasted for several more seconds before William’s legs gave out and his bottom flopped onto the duvet.

“It’s a very promising start,” Sherlock told him, scooping him up into his arms. “And once you can master not putting everything in your mouth, you’ll be a very capable lab assistant, young man.”

Molly wondered just how seriously she should be taking this; it didn’t seem a big stretch to imagining coming home and finding a toddler in a lab coat and goggles, chasing the cat with a lit Bunsen burner.

“You know,” she said, her eyes catching sight of the paper gift bag by the wardrobe. “If he keeps going at this rate, your mum might need to buy him some matching shoes for the wedding, too.”

Sherlock looked at her open-mouthed, releasing William so that he could crawl back over to Molly.

“God, I thought I’d dreamt that thing you said about the wedding outfit,” he said, with a look of mild horror on his face.

“Nope,” Molly smiled. “Take a look.”

Sherlock climbed out of bed and snatched up the bag, holding it out in front of him as though it was Toby’s litter tray. He set it down on the bed and, with a pained look, withdrew the garments that it contained. He set each one down individually: the pale blue knickerbocker dungarees, the matching elastic bowtie, the short-sleeved white flannel shirt and the frilly white socks.

Turning a little pale, Sherlock turned to her.

“Molly, is there any possibility that he will have outgrown all of this within the next twelve days?”

She shook her head. A tiny little part of her did feel sorry for him – although that _was_ outweighed by the part that was enjoying his discomfort.

“Could we say the cat got hold of it?”

Molly laughed.

“You can’t use Toby as a scapegoat for everything!”

Only a couple of weeks earlier, he’d used the same excuse for why he hadn’t eaten Mrs Hudson’s experimental pea and vanilla cake.

“What about an accident in the lab?”

“You’d have to explain why it was in the lab in the first place,” she pointed out, smiling. “It’s just an outfit, Sherlock. As long as he’s comfortable, William won’t care.”

“ _Yet_ , Molly,” he replied. “He won’t care _yet_. But the photos will never go away, and one day, William will come to us and demand to know why we basically aided and abetted in what is tantamount to child abuse.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder again.

“Well, with any luck he might have been sick on it by the time the service starts,” she grinned.

Molly glanced at the clock and reluctantly accepted that it was probably time to think about breakfast if they were ever going to get out of the house and down to Kew Gardens. She carried William through to the living room, setting him down in front of the sofa amid a scattering of toys, while she set up his highchair and hunted around for porridge oats. Sherlock followed them into the living room and, once he’d retrieved William from underneath the desk, he picked up his violin. He’d only played a few bars when Molly suddenly remembered something.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock – with everything that happened, I completely forgot that you’d been to Sherrinford yesterday,” she said. “How…how was it?”

She was always hesitant to ask, knowing what while Sherlock’s sister seemed to be making progress, it was slow and inconsistent, and the experience of visiting often left him feeling both drained and conflicted. Molly knew he felt guilt over devoting so much time and exertion to the person who tried to destroy their friendship and kill his best friend, but she also knew that John didn’t judge him for it any more than she did. It was something he had to do as a brother and a son – and because nobody else could. Sherlock’s visits to Sherrinford were a strange thing, something she felt slightly detached from, something that sort of went on in the background without her participation. Which felt odd in itself, considering the major, ongoing roles those visits played in their lives – and would presumably play throughout their marriage.

“It was…fine,” he replied, lowering his violin. “Nothing of concern.”

“What did the specialists say?” Molly asked, measuring out the oats.

He didn’t reply for a few moments, and she looked up, assuming that he was preoccupied with William (who was, apparently, trying to crawl behind the sofa again). But he was just standing there, looking for all the world as though several expressions were battling for dominance of his face.

“Eurus is talking again,” he said eventually.

Molly frowned, pausing automatically in her breakfast preparations. This…this was more than just incremental progress.

“W-why didn’t you say something?”

He set the violin and bow down on the table.

“I would have, Molly,” he replied. “I wanted to. I intended to. But then…much bigger things needed my attention.”

Molly nodded; he could be forgiven for that.

“I…well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, what…what did she say?” she asked, placing her hands flat on the worktop.

William, she noticed, had safely emerged from the other end of the sofa and was investigating one of Toby’s toys that he must have found behind it.

“For most of our visit, not a lot,” he replied. “I was concerned that the doctors had raised my parents’ expectations without cause. It was only when I started to play for her that she spoke. I hadn’t done it consciously, but I had automatically begun playing the composition I wrote not long after we found out about William. Eurus…she must have inferred its significance.”

“Its significance? In relation to William?”

“No,” he said, measuredly. “In relation to you.”

Molly felt her breath catch in her chest; the fear response was still there when it came to Eurus Holmes.

“She…she asked,” Sherlock said, taking a few steps across the living room. “She asked to speak to you, Molly. To meet you.”

Before she had time to react – if she could even arrive at a suitable reaction – he had spoken again.

“I informed Eurus that it wouldn’t be happening, that it was impossible,” Sherlock said. “She knows I would never willingly put you at risk.”

Molly nodded and tried to relax, allow her heartrate to return to normal.

“Do…do you know why?” she asked. “I mean, did she say why she wants to see me?”

Sherlock dug both hands into his dressing gown pockets.

“She did say,” he nodded. “But I’m not sure whether to trust her answer.”

“Sherlock…?”

“She wants you to accept her,” he replied, looking directly at her. “Eurus knows how much you mean to my mother and father – and even to Mycroft – and she knows that you’re fond of them, too, consider them to be family. She wants…I think she wants to be part of that, in her own way.”

Molly closed her eyes and braced her arms against the counter.

“That’s…that’s not a reasonable thing for her to ask.”

She immediately felt guilty for saying it but, no, why should she feel guilty?

“I know it isn’t,” Sherlock said, moving closer. “And that’s more or less what I told her. I thought…I had to confess, Molly, that I had considered not telling you at all, that it would be easier all round, given what Eurus was asking. But then with what happened with Irene Adler, the fact that my silence had brought the devil to our door…I said I wouldn’t keep things from you again.”

Molly lifted her gaze from the counter and tucked a strand of her behind her ear. Sherlock was looking at her with apprehension, clearly unsure as to whether he had done the right thing.

“What you said to Eurus was right,” she said, swallowing. “I can’t go to Sherrinford, Sherlock…I won’t. It isn’t…it isn’t the right time.”

He nodded slowly, his relief suddenly visible in his face and posture.

“If you’d have wanted to go, Molly, I would have supported you in that,” he said. “I would never presume to make that decision for you. But I can’t say I’m sorry, and I’m sure my parents will feel the same way. Sherrinford…it isn’t a good place, and they both love you too much to watch you go through that. I feel the same way.”

They saw it as their family burden, Molly knew, the cross they had to bear, through no direct fault of their own.

Molly came out from around the counter and slipped her arms around Sherlock’s waist, under his dressing gown. Without her shoes, her head fitted perfectly underneath his chin, pillowed just above his heart, and she delighted in the feeling of being surrounded by Sherlock entirely.

“Molly…”

His voice rumbled against her cheek.

“Mm?”

“I may be wrong, but I think our son is eating cat food again.”

“Oh shit!” she whispered, quickly releasing herself and dashing over to where William was sitting on the floor, beaming up at her with kibble crumbs stuck to his chin.

As she was encouraging William to spit the contents of his mouth into her hand (oh, the glamour of parenthood!), Molly heard Sherlock’s text alert.

“Oh shit!”

“What?” she asked, twisting around.

“From John,” he replied, the colour draining from his face. “Apparently, he and Lestrade are making good on their threat, and completely disregarding my feelings on the matter.”

“What?” Molly repeated.

Sherlock sighed, shoving his phone back into his dressing gown pocket.

 “My stag do is tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And now, the stag do arrives and I have to try to make good on my build-up. Crap.


	14. Chapter 14

At precisely six pm, Sherlock stepped out of a taxi outside The Gunmakers pub in Clerkenwell. He stood there for a long moment, looking at the narrow-fronted Victorian drinking establishment; it was time to go into battle. And every battle required a plan. Ignoring Mrs Hudson’s ridiculous suggestion that he ‘just enjoy it’ and ‘get a bit tiddly’, Sherlock had instead spent the afternoon – once Molly was back from wedding-related shopping to take over with William – equipping himself for the night ahead.

First, the revision – this had to be tackled from three different fronts. John had expressly said that there would be nothing to be concerned about, provided he was confident in his knowledge of their casework (or rather  _his_  casework – John was somewhat prone to embellishment when it came to his own role). Therefore, the natural starting point was the blog, which Sherlock re-read in its entirety in under an hour, feeling pleased with himself that no detail came as a surprise. Just to be certain, he then perused all of this own case-notes, which were far more robust when it came to the pertinent facts of the cases, and far  _less_  full of ‘amusing’ anecdotes and ‘charming’ asides. And finally – because he knew that Lestrade was a co-conspirator in this ludicrous charade – Sherlock dug out all of the press clippings and police statements that related to all of the cases he’d worked.

This still left time to devote half an hour to re-visiting his Mind Palace, walking his way through the course of every single case since he’d met John Watson in the lab at Bart’s eight years earlier. There had been one or two interruptions from William – involving first a small finger inserted into Sherlock’s ear and, later, a padded bottom thumping straight down on his unprepared stomach – but he was still fairly happy with his preparations.

At five o’clock, Molly had insisted that he eat something at the same time as Will was having his dinner.

“Why?” he’d asked. “I’m not at all hungry.”

She’d replied with something about ‘lining his stomach’, which sounded like a revolting concept.

“You once came to me for drinking advice, remember?” she’d said, while cutting up William’s baked potato.

“I did,” he’d acknowledged. “It didn’t help, as I recall.”

That was partly, he suspected, because once she’d told him about all the sex she was apparently having with Meat Dagger, his brain refused to retain everything she was telling him. Ugh. He needed to delete that memory. Except how lovely Molly had looked that day – he’d keep that. And how nice she smelled, and how the sound of her voice had made him feel. The sex stuff could definitely go, though.

“Well, I’m telling you, Sherlock, you need to eat something,” she’d said, sitting down with her cup of tea. “Drinking on an empty stomach is asking for trouble.”

“I don’t plan to do much drinking,” he’d explained. “John and Greg are nothing if not predictable. Drinking will no doubt be in the form of a forfeit for me, when I fail to correctly answer questions about my work – but thanks to my exhaustive preparations this afternoon, that particular situation is not likely to occur.”

She had looked at him sideways, one eyebrow raised. Sherlock knew that look – she’d given him the same one a couple of days earlier, when he’d assured her that William couldn’t open the kitchen cupboards (yes, she  _had_  been right on that score, but all that proved was their son’s precocious genius).

“And don’t be afraid of tactical vomiting, if you really have to,” Molly had continued matter-of-factly, while removing a baked bean from William’s eyelid.

Sherlock had looked at his fiancée with an expression of dumb horror.

“I did it a few times at uni,” she’d explained. “Yeah, it’s horrible, but if you know you’re going to be forced to drink more later, it can, you know, clear things out a bit.”

“How could anyone with a medical background possibly advocate such a practice?” Sherlock challenged (although given the far worse things that he’d willfully done to his own body in the past, he knew he probably shouldn’t be casting aspersions).

Molly had shrugged, taken a sip of tea.

“The clichés about medical students?” she’d grinned, waggling her eyebrows. “They’re mostly true.”

Sherlock hadn’t been sure whether to be amused or appalled, but he was starting to think that an undergraduate Molly Hooper must have been a force to be reckoned with. He made a mental note to ask to see photos.

Molly had grinned at him, leaning across the table to quickly kiss him on the lips.

“Keep an eye on Will,” she’d said, getting up. “I’m getting you a sandwich.”

Sherlock had decided it best not to argue – the food was entirely unnecessary, of course, but it seemed a small price to pay to make Molly feel more reassured about his evening.

 

When he walked into the pub, John and Lestrade were sitting on barstools at a raised table; they both had pint glasses in front of them, and had split open a packet of crisps to share. On seeing him, Sherlock saw them exchanged surprised looks.

“You’re…here,” Greg said, in a slack-jawed way that really was not befitting a senior law-enforcement official.

Sherlock locked his hands behind his back and offered him a patient smile.

“It is six o’clock,” he replied. “I believe that was the time John specified?”

“Er, yeah,” Greg said, his eyes going wide for a moment. “It’s just…we didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Why wouldn’t I come?”

John did that thing with his face where he pulled his chin into his neck, and simultaneously raised his eyebrows.

“Maybe because you’ve done nothing for the past nine months but tell us you’re not having a stag do?” he said.

“And because you’re scared,” Lestrade added, tipping some crisp dust into his mouth.

“Yesss,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Because despite the highly dangerous nature of my day-to-day work, what I’m  _actually_  scared of is two middle-aged men and their silly little drinking games.”

“Oi!” Lestrade put in. “Less of the ‘middle-aged’. There are…actual women in ‘ere, you know.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, none of whom have imbibed enough ‘2 for 1’ cocktails yet to place you anywhere less than fifty.”

“I’ll take that,” Greg conceded, cocking his head to one side before draining his pint glass. He started to climb down from his bar stool. “Let me get the first drinks in. What’s your poison, chief?”

“Black coffee, two sugars,” Sherlock replied, sliding onto the bar stool opposite.

Both John and Greg pulled a face at him.

“It’s a stag night, mate,” Greg replied. “Not a meeting with your bank manager. You’re going to ‘ave to at least let me Irish-up that coffee.”

Sherlock unwound his scarf and placed it, folded, on the table.

“Okay. Dry sherry.”

Lestrade snorted.

“Where are we? My nan’s house in 1973?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resignedly.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll have an…um, a beer.”

“Good man!” Lestrade beamed.

“Because, as you said,” Sherlock added, turning to John. “Providing I am confident in my knowledge of our investigations, I will be fine tonight.”

“Tucked up in bed with Molly before closing time,” John nodded, smiling. Again, Sherlock didn’t like the character of that smile.

He watched John as his friend consulted his phone about something; he noticed him glance up and around, apparently looking for something or someone. God help John Watson if anyone was about to enter this pub in a novelty costume and start to remove their clothing in front of him.

A few minutes later, Lestrade planted a pint of beer in front of him, and at that point, John started to wave to someone across the pub. Twisting around, Sherlock’s eyes fell on a heavyset man in his early thirties, with a few days’ growth of beard – but he recognised him chiefly from the hat in his hand. A knitted, Icelandic sheep’s wool hat ( _not_  a Peruvian  _chullo_ ) with tassels, which had seen better days.

“Sherlock,” John said, getting to his feet to greet the young man. “You remember Howard Shilcott?”

Of course he did. Instantly, Sherlock was transported back to that cluttered first-floor flat filled with train memorabilia and a smell of Pot Noodles; Molly was by his side in her long, striped scarf, silently chastising him for questioning the likelihood of the client having a girlfriend.

“The Lord Moran case,” Sherlock nodded, accepting Shilcott’s nervous (and slightly clammy) handshake. “The bomb at Sumatra Road Tube station.”

“Yeah!” Shilcott replied, smiling, clearly pleased to be remembered. “That was me. Well, what I mean is, I had that CCTV footage, you came to my flat – you and your partner.”

“Now his fiancée,” John interjected. “Getting married in just over a week.”

“Oh wow, right - congratulations!” the man replied. “Me too, actually.”

“Hm?” Sherlock asked.

“I mean, I’m getting married, too – in a couple of weeks,” Shilcott said. “My fiancée’s still a big fan of yours.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at that – he would have to tell Molly she was right all along.

“Anyway,” he said. “I imagine that at some point, John is going to tell me why you’re here, hm?”  

At this, Howard Shilcott looked a little uncomfortable, but he shuffled onto the spare bar stool that Greg gestured to. Sherlock eyed the man, looking for clues of any sort that would support any of the six theories he currently had running through his mind. John looked altogether too pleased with himself.

“So, Howard saw my Twitter posts,” John said, smiling smugly.

“What Twitter posts?” Sherlock demanded. All John seemed to do on Twitter was complain about NHS cuts and attempt to flirt with female doctors or scientists who had their own television shows.

“Bit of stag do prep,” John replied. “I may have set up a new Twitter handle for the occasion.”

He held out his phone so that Sherlock could see the screen. In front of him was the page for ‘Baker Street Stag’, which apparently had amassed 1,648 followers since it was established six days earlier. John whipped his phone away before he could read much of the detail, although he did catch sight of the godawful hashtag, #HolmesGettingHitched.

“Greg and I thought it might be a nice opportunity to say hello to a few faces from past investigations,” he said, sipping his pint.

“In what way would that be nice?” Sherlock enquired.

Lestrade cleared his throat and jerked his head towards Shilcott.

“What?” Sherlock demanded. “I’m sure Howard here isn’t planning to spend  _his_  stag do reacquainting himself with assorted people he’s had the misfortune to work with over the past few years.”

“Shut up and play along, you git,” John said, pushing Sherlock’s pint more firmly under his nose. “This is how it works. We go to pubs, we meet people you’ve worked with on cases. If you answer their questions correctly, Greg and I will have a drink - if you don’t, you have to have their favourite drink with them. And just in case you’re worried there might be a lull in the fun, Sherlock – because god knows there were a few of those during  _my_  stag do – we’ve got some great questions coming through the Twitter feed, too.”

Sherlock folded his hands on the table in front of him.

“It appears you have everything covered, John,” he said, offering his alleged Best Man a watery smile. “And what exactly do these people get out of it?”

“What, you mean aside from the pleasure of our company?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Pretending for a moment that your company _isn’t_ enough to draw virtual strangers from halfway across the most populous city in Europe?”

“Well, they get to be part of an event that quite frankly nobody ever thought was going to happen,” John supplied.

There was definitely an ‘and’ there, Sherlock could sense it; people rarely did anything if there wasn’t something in it for them, too.

“You’ll follow them on Twitter,” John confirmed.

Oh, for god’s sake.

“I don’t follow  _anyone_  on Twitter.”

“I know,” replied grinned. “I bet you’ll make a lot of new friends.”

“Is that it?” Sherlock asked, folding his arms.

“And they get a selfie with the Great Hat Detective,” John added.

Sherlock’s heart sank several stories as his friend suddenly produced the deerstalker from underneath the table.

“You stole that from my flat,” Sherlock replied, tersely. 

“No, Molly very willingly handed it over,” John said, planting the hat firmly on Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock sighed, adjusting the hat so that he at least looked slightly less half-witted. This was clearly Molly’s revenge for the whole William-in-a-deerstalker-all-over-Twitter debacle.

“Anyway!” Lestrade said, clapping his hands together. “Less chat, more drinking. Howard, what’s your question for the groom-to-be?”

At this, the young man nervously cleared his throat again, smiling almost apologetically at Sherlock. Still, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel quietly confident – after all, there couldn’t possibly be any detail of the Moran investigation, however small, that this man knew and he didn’t.

“So, erm, where had I just come back from holiday?”

Sherlock frowned, concerned for a moment that he had missed an entire chunk of conversation.

“Sorry, what?”

“When you came to my flat that day, where had I just got back from?”

Sherlock flashed a look of exasperation at John and Greg, who both appeared to be struggling to contain their amusement.

“I’m sorry, what has that got to do with the case?” he demanded. “You didn’t mention anything about a holiday.”

Howard Shilcott looked a little uneasy, but ploughed on.

“Yeah, I did, when I answered the door,” he said. “I apologized for the mess….Dr Watson said I should try and come up with something more personal to ask you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.

“Oh, he did, did he?” he replied, feeling his hand clench around his pint glass.

“Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for ya, Sherlock.” Greg grinned.

“And, as you’ve made clear on many occasions, mate,” John added. “You never delete anything from a case.”

“I never delete anything of  _importance_ ,” Sherlock fired back. “Anything pertinent to the  _investigation_. Funnily enough, that doesn’t usually include a client’s recent package holiday to Benidorm.”

“Is that your guess?” John prompted.

“No!” Sherlock blurted. “I mean, obviously not. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

It was abundantly clear that John bloody Watson was rigging the game, and that he was getting far too much enjoyment from this undeserved position of superiority.

“Told you he’d be a git about it,” Lestrade said, nudging John, as they both looked at him with barely-suppressed mirth.

“You really want me to tell you where you’d been on holiday?” Sherlock asked, turning to their guest.

“Yeah, I…er…I suppose.”

“Fine!” Sherlock said. “Your hat was acquired on a trip to Iceland some years earlier. You chose Iceland because it seemed ‘cool’ and ‘different’, but not _too_ different, because you can get there in a few hours, everyone speaks English and you can recognize most of the food. You also chose it because of the climate – you’re prone to sunburn, and in addition, you dislike being forced to wear the sandals and shorts that a more Mediterranean climate would require. On this basis, you considered Norway or Sweden as a possible follow-up destination, but by this time the exchange rate had shifted to the extent that you were worried about cost, so you had to look for something cheaper. Eastern Europe was a more viable option, and some of the low-cost airlines were flying direct to their capitals – so when Molly and I came to visit you in your flat, you’d just returned from Estonia.”

Sherlock sat back, arms folded, with his eyebrows raised. It was possible that this evening was going to be more enjoyable than he’d thought.

But then he noticed Howard Shilcott’s expression…

“We went to Tenerife,” he said, apologetically.

Sherlock heard Lestrade splutter into his beer.

“But you were right about some things!” Shilcott piped up. “I did stay indoors a lot because it was too hot, and I did eat a lot of English food. Chips mostly.”

He shrugged.

“It was my girlfriend’s choice. She didn’t like Iceland much.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” John said, rubbing his hands together. “Sounds like one to us. You get the selfie and I’ll head to the bar. What’s your drink of choice, Howard?”

“Erm, I like a snakebite and black,” he replied, which provoked a look of delight on John’s face.

“What the hell is that?” Sherlock demanded. Had John somehow managed to round up the group of people who would provide him with the most revolting drinks menu for the evening?

“You’ve never had a snakebite?” Lestrade asked, wide-eyed.

“I’ve never had one in the form of a drink,” Sherlock clarified. “I’ve had three actual snakebites. And I’m starting to think they might be preferable.”

A few minutes – and one slightly awkward hat-based selfie later – John set two pints of dark, murky liquid on the table. Howard Shilcott immediately thanked him and snatched his up, leaving Sherlock to consider the demon drink in front of him.

“It’s lager, cider and blackcurrant,” John explained. “Now drink up. We’ve got to move on to somewhere else in ten minutes.”

0000000

A short while later, Sherlock followed his so-called friends through the doors of what seemed to be a disgustingly hip, supposedly Bohemian ‘pub and eating house’ (what the hell was an ‘eating house’?). Drinking a pint of Howard Shilcott’s ghastly beverage in ten minutes, alongside the original pint of lager, had not reacted well with Sherlock’s head or stomach, and he was concerned that it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet.

The bar was full of extremely objectionable-looking city types, pretending to ‘slum’ it in an East End pub, while probably not even realising such a place had been built entirely with them – and their massive salaries – in mind. It was perhaps not surprising, then, when Sherlock saw who was pushing through the crowds at the bar to meet them.

“Bloody hell, it’s Sherlock Holmes!” boomed a braying, public school voice.

Oh Christ, no.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock replied, smiling thinly.  

“You didn’t keep in touch!” the man replied. “We had our twenty-year reunion last year – I tried to send you the deets.”

Sherlock could picture exactly the laughter that was going on behind his back. He was going to kill John Watson and Greg Lestrade, and he was going to make their deaths look extremely embarrassing.

“What a shame,” he replied, thin-lipped.

The very thought of spending more than two minutes in the company of his university compatriots was enough to make his skin itch. Sebastian Wilkes hadn’t been the worst of them, but he was still an appalling wanker, whose distinctly below-average IQ had somehow still enabled him to rise to the top of the banking world (well, perhaps that wasn’t  _too_  surprising).

“Anyway, I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” Wilkes continued. “No offence, Holmes, but you – getting married? She must be a very special lady.”

Well, at least he didn’t have to lie through his teeth on that score.

“Yes, Molly is quite unparalleled in all respects,” he replied.

“And you’ve got a kid, too, right?” Wilkes said, clapping him on the arm. “I’ve got a couple of rugrats myself, too. We should get them together, have a playdate.”

_I would rather dangle William over the crocodile enclosure at London Zoo._

“Anyway,” Sherlock said instead. “I take it you have a question for me, related to the Eddie van Coon investigation? Let’s get it over with.”

Sebastian Wilkes looked a little crestfallen that the small-talk had come to an end.

“Oh yeah, your pal, John, explained what you’re doing tonight,” he said. “Sounds like it’s going to get messy.”

_Only if I have to punch you_ , thought Sherlock.

“I thought of a good one,” Wilkes said, with a self-satisfied smile. “What was the name of van Coon’s PA?”

“Is that  _it_?” interjected Lestrade. “Sounds a bit easy.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling – he instantly knew that this very obvious piece of information that by rights  _should_  be in his head just wasn’t there. He could picture her, one hundred per cent, and could even recall the exact wording of their brief conversations – but a name?

Damnit.

“I can recall her preferred brand of hand cream, and I could tell you the value of the stolen hairpin she was inadvertently harbouring,” he said, tartly. “Those facts were, as I recall, far more relevant to the investigation.”

“Forgetting people’s names is considered bad manners, Sherlock,” Lestrade put in.

_Bloody hell – at this rate, Lestrade would be begging for the day when his biggest problem was being addressed by the wrong name._

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded, suddenly spotting John typing on his phone.

“I’m live-Tweeting,” he replied, as though that were obvious. “Want to make sure we’ve got a permanent record.”

Wonderful. His  _mother_  might be following the evening’s events. Mycroft  _definitely_  would be.

“A name, Sherlock?” Greg prompted.

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh.

“Donna,” he spat, knowing he may as well have uttered any female name that came into his heard.

“Sorry, mate,” smiled Wilkes. “It was Amanda. Does that mean I get to buy you a drink?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock sighed again. At least it was possible that Sebastian Wilkes might have better taste than Howard Shilcott – if he was lucky, maybe it would be a decent Scotch.

“Great!” Wilkes said. “Dirty vodka martinis all round?”

“Just for the lucky groom, thanks,” John cut in. “We’re, ah, pacing ourselves.”

As Sebastian Wilkes elbowed his way to the bar, Sherlock turned to face John and Greg (apparently too quickly, if the sudden blackcurrant-flavoured head-rush was any indicator).

“Having fun?” he enquired, accusingly.

“Hm, getting there,” John replied.

“In a few more pubs I think we will be,” Greg added.

“Just how many people have you lined up to participate in this ritual humiliation?” Sherlock demanded.

The chemist in him was starting to fear what this hideous mixing of drinks was likely to do to him – was it realistic to text Molly and ask her to make a few calculations? She’d probably be giving Will a bath, so possibly not…

"Think of it as a compliment," John said. "You've touched a lot of lives, Sherlock."

"Touched a few nerves, too," added Greg, smirking. "I'm not sure they're all well-wishers _exactly_."

"Don't worry," John said, with a dismissive wave. "You'll be fine in time for the wedding."

"That's in nine days!" spluttered Sherlock. 

"Exactly!" John grinned. "You can recover at your leisure. Look, you've got a doctor and a copper with you, so you won’t end up in hospital having your stomach pumped, and Molly won’t be bailing you out of a holding cell in the morning.”

“Relax, mate,” Greg added, as Sherlock saw Wilkes approaching with two martini glasses, adorned with lemon slices. “It’s all completely in hand.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that he's not really even drunk yet, there's going to be a part Stag Do Part 2 in a couple of days...! :-)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stag night part 2 – prepare for a long read! (although, hopefully, a funny one, too)

Except that, an hour later, John was starting to question whether things really  _were_  still in hand. They were now a further two pubs into the evening, and while Sherlock was about as drunk as John expected him to be at this stage in proceedings, he, too, was feeling surprisingly…unsteady. He had steadfastly stuck to beer, and nothing too potent, either, but still…

He returned from the loo at The Fox and Anchor to find Sherlock looking despairingly at what John was fairly sure was a double rum and Coke, the preferred tipple of one Julie Wood.

“I’m so sorry - who are you, again?” Sherlock was saying, squinting at the woman.

“Julie,” she replied, leaning away from him a little. “You came to talk to me about Alex, the guy I used to share a flat with? He was a security guard at The Hickman Gallery – he, um, he died. Well, he was killed. He was big into astronomy.”

“The Van Buren supernova, 1858!” Sherlock suddenly yelled. “Fake, phony, forgery, fraud!”

“Um, yeah…” the woman said.

“ _That_  should have been your question!” Sherlock said, jabbing a finger in Julie Wood’s face. “I know astronomy! Earth goes around the sun, moon does something-or-other with tides. Actually not as boring as you’d think, though. John!”

Sherlock whirled around, looking for him. John offered a little wave to catch his attention.

“John! Listen. Tomorrow – tomorrow, I’m taking William to the sanitarium. No, no that – the swirly planet thing in the dark. Plan…plan…planetatarium.”

“Planetarium?” John provided.

“That’s the chap!” Sherlock crowed, looking very pleased with his accomplishment. “William will love it!”

“Who’s William?” Julie asked, with a puzzled expression.

At this, John saw Sherlock visibly swell with pride, despite his increasingly glassy-eyed appearance.

“He’s my son. My brilliant, beautiful little boy,” he replied. “Well, mine and Molly’s. Have you met Molly? You’d like her – everyone likes her. Molly is so beautiful, and so kind, and the most intelligent person I know, and -”

Swaying slightly, a ridiculous smirk on his face, he added in a stage whisper – “and she’s really,  _really_  good in bed.”

“Okay!” John said, loudly, hearing Greg’s bark of laughter behind him. “Probably time for us to leave Julie alone. Do you want to get a picture?”

Quickly, John snapped a photo of the two of them, Julie giving a hesitant smile, while Sherlock gave a full-on grin to the camera, his deerstalker at a rakish angle. Sherlock was becoming more amenable to being photographed as the evening progressed, which told a very clear story about his state of intoxication. John quickly uploaded it to Twitter, worrying slightly that his own hand-eye coordination seemed to be suffering a little.

“Drink up, big man!” Greg said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

“But it’s really, really horrible!” Sherlock replied mournfully, staring at his drink. “I thought rum would be more fun. Pirates drink rum.”

John had to concede that he was starting to feel a bit sorry for Sherlock who, after all, had been remarkably compliant with it all. The fact that he had turned up in the first place, and not called on Mycroft to whisk him out of the country, was a credit to him – and so far, there had been no attempts to escape out of toilet windows, or by creating elaborate diversions.

John slid a glass of water and a packet of nuts in front of Sherlock.

“Here,” he said. “Have these. I’m going to reply to a few of these Tweets. I think Kirsty said she has to be in bed by nine.”

“Oo’s Kirsty?” Greg asked, tossing a cashew nut into his mouth.

“Kirsty Stapleton,” John replied. “Her mum worked on the Baskerville military base.”

“She had a…” Sherlock waved his hand around. “Luminous rabbit.”

“Yes, she did,” John confirmed. “And actually, Kirsty wants to ask you what the name-”

“Bluebell!” Sherlock announced, with a triumphant slap of the table.

“-the name of the rabbit she got  _after_  Bluebell,” John said, completing his sentence.

Sherlock looked aghast.

“How should I know?”

John scanned the series of Tweets.

“She says she emailed you about it after you solved the case. You didn’t reply.”

“Of course I didn’t reply!” Sherlock replied. “I don’t have time to conduct ongoing epistolary friendships with eight-year-olds about their family pets!”

“No guesses?” John asked. 

Sherlock put his head on the table.

“It’s Mr Wiggles,” John said. “She’s even sent a photo. Might show that to Rosie, although it will probably make her want one.”

Sherlock lifted his head and tried to focus his gaze on the screen.

“So what’s Kirsty’s favourite drink?” he slurred. “Absinthe?”

“Er…chocolate milkshake.”

Sherlock looked up, hopefully.

“Do they sell those here? I would have one if they did.”

There was a question from Gary and Billy from The Cross Keys pub in Dartmoor, which resulted in a dry white wine, and another from Tessa Mills, one of the targets of The Mayfly Man who, John conceded, probably had very good reasons for not wanting to turn up in person to yet another stag do.  _Her_  question led to the purchasing of a gin and tonic. There was also a question from Archie (via his mum’s Twitter account) about maggots, which seemed to be apropos of nothing, but which Sherlock was very keen to answer in great detail, insisting that John take down his dictation.

“He says thanks,” John told Sherlock, as a response came back. “Hm. He also says weddings are crap and babies are stupid, and you should forget both and let him move in with you and help you solve crimes.”

“Master Archie has a lot to learn,” Sherlock replied, resting his cheek on the table. “Tell him I’ll get back to him.”

John took a sip of beer and checked the time on his phone. Half an hour until they had to be at The Three Kings, and John had to admit that he could do with a rest himself.

“Listen, Greg,” he said quietly. “Do you feel…you know, okay?”

Greg shrugged.

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

“I dunno,” John replied. “Just…we’ve had the same amount to drink, right?”

“More or less. You feelin’ a bit rough?”

“Yeah,” John said, shaking his head to try and shake off the weird haze that seemed to be settling. “Bit out of practice, I suppose.”

“Chips,” a muffled voice said from beside them.

“What?” John said, not sure he’d heard correctly.

“Need chips,” Sherlock repeated, lifting his nose from the table again. “Now.”

A few minutes later, the three of them were standing at the counter of Kennedy’s fish and chip shop, the stark lighting amplifying the definite fuzziness in John’s head. Sherlock, however, seemed to have got a second wind, and had shifted from morose-drunk back to chatty-drunk; he was expounding on a theory – ostensibly to the counter staff - about how to make the perfect chip, describing in detail the potato preparation process, the temperature of the oil, the optimum frying time and the ideal presentation.

“You seem to be a man who knows his chips,” the man behind the counter said, tipping a shovelful onto the waiting newspaper.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, with a flourish and a smile. “I know ash, I know astronomy and I certainly know chips. In fact, I should write a monograph about chips. I will! I’ll start it tomorrow! People will read that, won’t they John?”

“Hm?” John said, hearing his name. God, he really didn’t feel right. “Yeah. Probably more popular than ash.”

The man laughed, shaking his head.

“What’s with him?” he asked.

“This is pretty much normal,” Greg replied, taking their parcels of chips. “Although tonight ‘appens to be ‘is stag.”

“That’s right, Gregory!” Sherlock declared, and before John had the chance to react, he had leapt onto the nearest chair, pulling his deerstalker firmly down on his head. “In nine days’ time, I will be marrying the woman I love – and therefore, tonight, the chips are on me!”

The speech drew a few uncertain glances and murmurs from the other customers, but very soon, Sherlock was hustling them all to the counter and slapping his bank card down in front of the shop assistant. John took his portion of chips, and eventually, he and Greg managed to drag Sherlock out of the chip shop and back onto the street. He couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was weaving slightly as they made their way towards the next pub, even more so than Sherlock, who now had such a spring in his step that he looked as though he might burst into song.

“Are you alright, John?” Greg asked, moving to walk alongside him. “You do look a bit Brahms & Liszt.”

John looked down at his chips, which he really didn’t have an appetite for.

“Yeah, fine,” he replied. “Probably just because I’m so knackered.”

When they walked through the door of The Three Kings, the person they were scheduled to meet was already there. Sherlock immediately bounded over to the large, curly-haired man with glasses, who was sitting playing some kind of game on his phone.

“Craig!” Sherlock cried.

“Alright, Sherlock?” the man replied, getting up to accept Sherlock’s slightly-too-effusive handshake.

“Keeping out of trouble?” Sherlock asked. “No more hacking government security systems?”

The man grinned.

“Well, not getting caught at any rate.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock said. “That’s good to hear. Because I’m far,  _far_  too drunk to help you tonight. I’m really quite extraordinarily off my face.”

John watched as Sherlock started to look around them, ducking under the table and glancing into the far corners of the pub.

“Where’s Toby?” he asked.

Craig looked confused.

“Toby? Well, I…I don’t usually bring him to the pub.”      

Sherlock suddenly looked crestfallen, and John realised why. Until he saw Sherlock with Molly, John had never seen Sherlock express as much affection for anyone as he did for that ridiculous bloodhound.

“I want a Toby of my own,” Sherlock said, pulling back the chair next to Craig and sinking into it. “Actually, I have a Toby of my own, but he’s the other thing.”

Sherlock waved his hand around vaguely, which wasn’t helping Craig’s confused state.

“You know, the thing dogs don’t like,” Sherlock added, by way of elaboration.

“Postmen?” Craig queried, puzzled.

“No! With the whiskers and the long…end bit,” Sherlock continued, in a frustrated tone. “Cat! We have a Toby cat. Dogs are much better. We’re going to get a dog.”

“Are you now?” Greg laughed.

“William likes dogs,” Sherlock replied, simply. 

At this, there was a sigh from Craig.

“Karen didn’t like dogs,” he said, with a note of sorrow.

“Who’s Karen?” Sherlock asked.

“My ex,” the man replied. “As of three days ago.”

Sherlock suddenly adopted an expression of abject horror and disbelief, and leaned towards Craig.

“Your girlfriend left you? That’s horrible!” he gasped. “Stop laughing, Lestrade – it’s rude! Why would you possibly think that Craig wouldn’t have a girlfriend? He knows a lot about computers and he owns the finest dog in London – he probably has a lot more to offer a woman than you do.”

“I wasn’t laughing!” Greg protested. “It’s just wind, you know – from the beer. And thanks a bunch.”

“Anyway,” Craig said. “I know congratulations are in order for you, Sherlock. That’s great. I’m s’posed to be asking you a question or something, aren’t I?”

John looked at Sherlock, and saw that the expression of sadness at Craig’s predicament had not left his face. Jesus, was Sherlock actually going to start crying?

“Yes, but we’re not doing that,” Sherlock said firmly, placing his hand on top of Craig’s in a way that John had to allow was surprisingly tender. “Instead, we’re going to have a drink and talk about  _you_ , Craig.”

The hacker looked a little stunned by this, as did Greg, who mouthed ‘what’s going on?’ to John. John shrugged in response.

“Round of beers, please, Lestrade!” Sherlock announced, waving a sheaf of notes in his face.

“Oh, I’m your barmaid now, am I?” Greg huffed.

“I can’t possibly leave Craig in his hour of need,” Sherlock explained.

The prospect of another beer made John’s stomach lurch a little. If he managed to get through this pint, that would still only be four in three hours – hardly heavy-lifting. The chips didn’t seem to have helped either – instead of absorbing some of the booze (and yes, that probably wasn’t rigorous science), they just seemed to be repeating on him, resulting in horrible beer-and-grease flavoured gas.

What was needed was a face-full of cold water, followed by some fresh air.

When he returned to the bar ten minutes later, things had become even more surreal. Several complete strangers had pulled up chairs around their table, and Sherlock was speaking to one of them with a very grave expression on his face, his hand resting on the woman’s forearm.

“What...is going on?” John asked Greg, who had apparently been forced to give up his chair for one of Sherlock’s new friends.

Greg handed him the pint he had been keeping for him.

“The world has gone completely barmy,” Greg said. “Believe it or not, Sherlock Holmes is offering relationship counselling.”

John frowned, looking again at the gathering of people, who seemed to be hanging on Sherlock’s every word.

“’E’s apparently doin’ a pretty good job of it,” Lestrade added, swallowing a mouthful of beer. “One romantic relationship and ‘e thinks ‘e’s an expert.”

“Well, he does have that annoying habit of being good at everything the first time he tries it,” John replied. Except his words didn’t come out quite as coherently as he expected.

“Mate, you’re slurrin’ a bit there,” Greg said, peering at him closely. “You sure you’re okay?”

John opened his mouth to answer, but very quickly became aware that his stomach was now an urgent priority. Pushing past a bemused Greg, he frantically elbowed his way through the groups of drinkers in the now-packed pub, the gents’ sign a beacon of hope in the distance. Once there, he threw open the door, only to find that the three stalls were all occupied.

Greg tried to catch him as he hastily pushed his way back through the crowds, but there was no way he could stop for even a second. Once outside on the street, John looked around frantically for somewhere –  _anywhere_  – that might be even slightly discreet and not attract the attentions of passing community police officers.

He just about made it into the service alley of the pub before his stomach took over, and it was all he could do to keep the volume of his retching to a minimum.

It was all over in a couple of minutes, but he took a few more to just stand there with his forehead against the brick wall. He was forty-four years old and puking round the back of a pub. Even his own stag night hadn’t been  _this_  bad.

As John slowly, shakily emerged from the alley, he realised that Sherlock was standing there waiting for him, still wearing the hat.

“I couldn’t see you, and Lestrade said you left in a hurry,” he said.

John waited while Sherlock performed his visual once-over and made his usual deductions.

“You appear to have been ill,” he concluded.

“Yeah,” John said, wishing he couldn’t smell his own breath quite so strongly. “Contents of stomach now very much not in stomach.”

“Better out than in,” Sherlock commented. “I’ll stay out here with you for a while. Lestrade has started some sort of horrendous sing-along anyway, so he’ll probably be kicked out soon, too.”

“With your new friends?” John asked, managing a wobbly smile.

Sherlock returned the smile, and led them along to the empty steps of an office building next door. He was still pretty damn drunk, John could tell, as the consulting detective gracelessly planted his arse on the step beside him - but he seemed strangely happy and content. John started to think that maybe he’d approached this whole evening the wrong way. Why should stag dos be all about making the groom’s life a misery? In fairness to Sherlock, the stag night  _he_  organized was not shit by design – it just kind of  _happened_. And of course, in retrospect, he hadn’t helped things by spiking both of their drinks.

“I probably haven’t said this enough,” he began, nudging Sherlock’s leg. “And if I haven’t, I sincerely apologise. But I am really, really happy for you. You marrying Molly…it’s just…it’s fantastic. And whatever you might think, Sherlock, whatever feelings of self-doubt you might have had – might still be having - you  _do_  deserve this.”

Sherlock, looking down at his feet, nodded slowly.

“Thank you, John,” he replied. “And thank you for this evening.”

John snorted.

“Yeah, well something went wrong, because you seem to have come out of it better than I have,” he said, with a wry laugh. “But you know the best part?”

“The chips?” Sherlock asked. “The chips were pretty good.”

“Well, mine are now on the ground in an alley, but no,” John said. “The best part was just now, seeing you talking to all of those people, listening to their problems, actually trying to help them. I mean, I know you’re always helping people, but not with that kind of thing - you were actually trying to make them feel better. You have got  _incredible_  capacity for empathy, mate, and I am so, so proud of who you’ve become over the past couple of years. Sentiment has been the making of you, mate.”  

Sherlock gave a lopsided smile.

“ _Molly_  has been the making of me.”

John nodded, his thoughts immediately flying to Mary. He may have given Mary the normality that she craved, but in the darkest period of his life, she had saved him, too. His expression must have been giving something away, because even drunk-Sherlock seemed to be able to read his mind.

“I wish things were different, John,” he said. “I wish…I would like you, whenever the time comes, to find someone who is right for you and Rosie.”

John felt something catch in his chest; both a familiar pang, but also a sensation of warmth. He reached a hand up to Sherlock’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“I’m sorry you vomited, too,” Sherlock added.

John snorted.

“Not your fault,” he replied. “I probably deserved it.”

There was a slight pause.

“Wellll…”

John glanced across at Sherlock.

“What?”

“I mean, yes, you probably  _did_  deserve it,” Sherlock elaborated. “But it may not have been entirely your fault.”

John sat back, blinking; he saw his friend swallow, and a slight colouring appear on his cheeks.

The  _bastard_!

“Sherlock, what did you do?” he said, trying to keep his voice under control (partly because his head was now starting to pound).

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap.

“I may have, during the course of the evening, been adding a hint of something to your beer.”

“A hint of  _what_?”

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Ethanol.”

He produced a small dropper bottle from his inside coat pocket. John nearly leapt up from the step.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock – ethanol? Couldn’t that have killed me?!”

“Only reagent-grade ethanol,” Sherlock replied, frowning, as though John was being ridiculous. “And just very small doses, diluted to the equivalent strength of vodka.”

John could barely find the words.

“When…when did you even do it?”

“I’ll admit it was hard at first,” he replied, passing the bottle from hand to hand. “But the more you drank, the more distractible you became. And that also meant you were less likely to see my swapping my own drinks for empty glasses from nearby tables.”

John dropped his head into his hands.

“Are you even drunk?” he asked. “Have you been faking it this whole time?”

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter.

“No, John, I am gloriously,  _roaringly_  drunk,” he grinned. “Not even I’m that good an actor. And I am going to feel like the very pits of hell in the morning, but I decided that if I was going down-”

“You were taking me with you,” John nodded.

“As I always do,” Sherlock smiled.

John realised he couldn’t really even muster the will to be angry. Sherlock had him. He’d beaten the game.

“You’re a massive git, you know that?” he said, jabbing a finger at Sherlock.

“Yep,” Sherlock replied, getting to his feet. “But now that it’s all out of your system, do you think you could manage one more drink? Completely unadulterated this time, of course.”

John looked up at him, and at the helping hand Sherlock was proffering. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he took the hand and allowed Sherlock to haul him to his feet. There was a moment where John thought they were both going to tumble into an ugly heap in the gutter, but somehow they both regained their balance, and – still cursing his own gullibility - he followed Sherlock back into the bar.

0000000000

Molly glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece again. It wasn’t even closing time, so she didn’t know why she was doing it. Well, yes, if she was honest with herself, she did. Looking at Twitter had been a very bad idea, and as the night wore on and Sherlock started to look less adorable in the photos and more inebriated, she had taken the firm decision to leave her phone at the other side of the room.

Instead, it had seemed like the perfect chance to work on her submission for  _The Pathologist_. William in bed, the living room to herself - it would have been a wasted opportunity. Except she couldn’t concentrate, of course. Not that she didn’t trust John or Greg, but she knew the pair of them would take any opportunity they could get to have a bit of fun with Sherlock. It didn’t help, too, that she had been preoccupied all day by the conversation she’d had with Sherlock the previous morning. So instead, she had made lots of cups of tea, ran through the wedding plans for the umpteenth time, and spent far too much time with Toby and his new cat brush.

Around ten-thirty, she heard a car pull up outside, leaving its engine running for a short while before driving off again. Molly hadn’t even put down her laptop when she heard a muffled sound of swearing and someone – two people – arguing over, and fumbling with, the lock downstairs.

Seconds later, the sound of two bodies falling through the doorway and onto the hall carpet.

Oh dear god.

“I like that song!” she heard a deep voice say in protest, as she approached her own door. Before she had got so far as opening it, Molly heard the owner of the voice – her own Sherlock Holmes – burst into booming song. Something about five hundred miles. Oh god – was he trying to do The Proclaimers?!

The next voice she heard as she walked out onto the landing was Mrs Hudson’s.

“Stop that right now, both of you!” she hissed, loudly. “Silly, silly boys! Your little one is fast asleep in my flat, John Watson, and  _you_ , Mister, will have to answer to your young lady if you’ve woken up the baby.”

“What does ‘havering’ even mean?” Sherlock demanded. “I’ve always wondered.”

Molly heard Mrs Hudson tut.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re doing it right now, Sherlock,” she replied, disparagingly. “I don’t suppose it’s very complimentary.”

Molly knew she couldn’t linger on the landing for much longer. Drawing a deep breath, she padded down the stairs, immediately spotting the top of a deerstalker hat.

“ _He_  fell asleep in the pub toilets,” Sherlock was saying, pointing dramatically at John. “And again in the taxi. Rubbish at drinking.”

“He poisoned me!” John retorted, swaying precariously.

 "Good night, then?" Molly ventured, taking a few steps down the stairs.

On hearing her voice, Sherlock's head swung around, and the look he gave her was like that of an excited puppy.

“Molly!” he cried, and within seconds he had bounded up the stairs towards her and had lifted her clean off the floor, wrapping his arms around her thighs. “My goddess! My angel! My _inamorata_!”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson scolded. “For goodness sake, put her down before there’s an accident! Didn’t your mother tell you not to play on the stairs?”

Sherlock went in for a kiss, but on getting a strong whiff of her fiancé’s breath, Molly quickly downgraded it from ‘full-on snog’ to ‘fond peck’.

It was only then that she noticed something about his appearance had changed.

“Um, Sherlock?” she asked, as he set her down on the stairs. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

And it was true – under his jacket, he was completely bare-chested.

“Lost it in a bet,” John put in, slumping onto the bottom step. “Something about ash.”

“They wanted my hat, Molly,” Sherlock said in an injured tone. “But I told them that you  _like_  the hat and would be upset if I lost it. So…”

“You gave them your shirt?” Molly said, catching sight of Mrs Hudson chuckling behind her.

She tried not to think about the fact that Sherlock sometimes paid upwards of two hundred pounds for his shirts. It would probably be on eBay the next day. When he reached up to reposition his hat, his jacket fell open and Molly noticed something else.

“Is that…pen?”

Sherlock looked down at his chest where she was pointing. He allowed her to open his jacket, when she was then just about able to read the words ‘World’s Only Consulting Sex-God’ written very inexpertly in marker pen.

“I did that,” he said, sounding – for some unearthly reason – proud of his achievement. “Had to use a mirror – which was actually really, really difficult. Some people end up with a tattoo on their stag night, but I would never do anything so idiotic.”

Molly had to cover her mouth with her hand.

“No,” she replied. “’Course you wouldn’t.”

Behind Sherlock, she could see Mrs Hudson rolling her eyes fondly.

“Just gonna go and see Rosie,” John said, trying to lever himself to his feet.

“No, you’re not,” Mrs Hudson told him. “She’s absolutely fine, and you smell atrocious, so even if you don’t wake her up by making a racket, that stink will do it instead. Bed!”

She was pointing in the direction of 221C.

Molly watched as John tried to regain his balance before digging in his pocket, presumably for his keys. He came up short, so with another ‘for goodness sake’, Mrs Hudson bustled past him and opened the door to his flat, giving him a little push over the threshold.

Sherlock, by this time, was standing a couple of stairs beneath Molly, his arms still around her waist and his head resting on her chest.

“Molly, do you need a hand with this one?” Mrs Hudson asked, once she was satisfied that John had been safely despatched to his flat.

Before she could answer, Sherlock threw out his arm in a wild gesture.

“Be gone, Hudders! I am going to make love to my fiancée!”

Mrs Hudson gave him what looked like a pitying look.

“I think that’s doubtful for a number of reasons, dear.”

Again, Molly had to suppress her laughter, but she indicated to Mrs Hudson that they’d be fine, and eventually managed to coax Sherlock up the stairs and into the flat. Except that he kept going, heading for the next flight.

“Sherlock, where are you going?” she hissed.

“To see William!” he replied, trying and failing to adopt a hushed tone.  

“No, Martha’s right, you’ll end up waking him!” Molly said, grabbing him by the arm.

“But I love him!” Sherlock reasoned. “I love him sooooo much!”

He really was a ridiculous man.

“Tomorrow,” Molly said, hauling him towards the living room. “Tell him tomorrow. Now go and get some water.”

Sherlock started to head for the kitchen, but then spun around.

“Ah, yes – tomorrow!” he declared. “Taking William to the planet place tomorrow!”

Molly raised an eyebrow.

“You might want to wait and see how you feel tomorrow.”

“Doing something else tomorrow, too,” Sherlock continued, as he looked around the kitchen. “Writing about chips.”

Molly shook her head. It wasn’t worth even questioning that one.

She heard the splash of water as Sherlock started to run the sink, emerging a few moments later brandishing a very large glass of water – or, more accurately, a lab beaker of water. Again, she didn’t bother to say anything – at least it was a clean one.

After Sherlock had chugged back the water, she set the beaker down on the counter and took him by the hand.

“Are we going to bed?” he asked, hopefully.

“Well,  _you_  are,” she replied, smiling.

Sherlock pouted, but allowed himself to be walked first through to the bathroom, where Molly put his toothbrush in his hand (because, otherwise, his morning-breath would probably incapacitate her), and then to their bedroom. Molly stood on tiptoes to remove his hat, and fished under his pillow for his pyjamas. She handed them to him, sitting on the edge of the bed while he shucked his jacket and started to unbutton his trousers.

“Molly,” Sherlock mumbled, as she tried to cajole him under the covers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about Irene Adler.”

Molly stiffened for a second, but continued to arranged the bedclothes around him.

“I know,” she said softly. “Get some sleep, Sherlock. I’ll come to bed myself soon.”

“No, but I have to tell you,” he said earnestly, taking hold of her wrist. “There’s something else I never told you, that I didn’t…that maybe I should have been honest about.”

Molly felt the pace of her heart start to quicken, she couldn’t help it.

“Sherlock, maybe we should do this in the morning…” she began. It felt as though a late-night, drunken confession was not going to help either of them.

“I wanted you to know that I didn’t sleep with her,” Sherlock continued, leaning up on his elbows. “And I know you don’t care about that, but there was more I wanted to say, Molly, and I didn’t know how to say it because so much has happened and it felt more ridiculous as time went on – but I haven’t been a good judge lately of what is or isn’t important, so I need you to know this, too.”

Molly took a breath, trying not to convey the feeling of trepidation that had crept over her.

“Go on,” she said in a near-whisper.

He nodded, blinking.

“Molly,” he said. “When we first…that night…when we, when William was conceived…I hadn’t…done that before. I was a virgin.”

It was so unexpected that Molly had to stop herself from asking him to repeat it. Even so, she found it was taking time to process - it was something she just hadn’t considered.

“Is…is that terrible?” Sherlock asked, perhaps struggling to gauge her reaction in his drunken state. “I mean, that I didn’t tell you?”

She couldn’t help but think back to that strange, unexpected, wonderful night eighteen months ago - the night that changed everything, and set them on this path - and start to replay events in her mind. If she thought about it, really analysed it, she imagined that with this new knowledge, things might now make more sense. But all she could see now was the almost childlike uncertainty in Sherlock’s eyes, the worry that he might have lost her trust.

So instead, so threaded her fingers through his slightly matted curls, and placed a soft, warm kiss to his lips. After a few seconds, Sherlock leaned into the kiss, humming appreciatively as his own hand went to cradle the back of her skull.

“I think we can talk about this tomorrow,” she whispered, as they moved apart. “I’ll go and turn everything off in the living room, and then I’ll come to bed.”

Sherlock nodded, heavy-lidded, and lay back against the pillows. Of course, five minutes later, when Molly came back to the bedroom, he was flat on his back and snoring. Except that in her absence, he’d chosen to take off his t-shirt, giving her a full view of his artwork - so despite his recent confession, it looked as though she  _would_  be going to bed with the World’s Only Consulting Sex-God after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter! I did feel pretty terrible for Sherlock in the previous chapter, so had to let him get his own back on John in some way :-)
> 
> I hadn’t really thought about it earlier on in the story, but I ended up writing Sherlock as a virgin here – I know people have different HCs on this (and mine tends to switch between fics!), but hopefully it doesn’t seem too implausible.
> 
> Oh, and ‘Brahms and Liszt’ is cockney rhyming slang for ‘pissed’ (in the British sense of the word). Always worried that Lestrade is going to come across sounding like Bert from Mary Poppins!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter of two halves, this one – the post-stag night fall-out, plus Molly makes a decision that could make the week before the wedding a little more stressful than planned…

A rat had crawled into his mouth and died. A small rodent, probably bought in by Toby, had made its way into the bedroom, scaled the duvet, prised open his jaws and clambered into his mouth, where it had promptly departed this world – it was the only explanation for the taste of pure pestilence in his mouth.

And who the hell was doing building work so early in the morning, because it sounded as though the whole of Baker Street was being excavated with pneumatic drills?

Perhaps, if he didn’t open his eyes, it would prove itself to be some kind of nightmare.

He must have dozed off again, because the next thing he was aware of a weight shifting about on top of him, and something patting his face. Something insistent and slightly sticky.

“William, sweetheart, Daddy might be feeling a bit poorly this morning,” he heard a voice whisper. A voice that was sort-of sympathetic-sounding, but also contained an undercurrent of amusement.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see a small, familiar face looming so close to his that he could barely focus. Big greenish-blue eyes, a crop of messy brown curls and a very serious expression. Before he could say anything, the hand came down on his cheek again. His son, William could immediately see, was experimenting – and he was the live test-subject. Well, ‘live’ was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration given how he currently felt.

“Good morning, William,” Sherlock croaked. God, even the air in his mouth tasted foul.

A look of alarm passed briefly across William’s face – he clearly wasn’t expecting to hear his father sound like that.

“S’okay, William,” Molly said, appearing in Sherlock’s view. “This is just what happens when grown-ups do silly things and get hopelessly out of their depth.”

Normally, he would offer a barbed comeback, but even processing basic thoughts felt like a gargantuan effort. He was powerless, too, to stop William’s continued use of his prone body as an adventure playground; it was only when small toes tried to use his most delicate parts as a foothold that he mustered the strength to defend himself.

“Daddy actually needs those,” he winced, lifting William onto the duvet beside him. “Unless you really, really don’t want any siblings. Or for Daddy to have fun with Mummy anymore.”

Molly giggled, shuffling along the bed so that she was a couple of feet away.

“Hello,” she smiled. “How badly does it hurt?”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, gagging slightly on his own phlegm.

“What, my genitals or…?”

“Everything else,” she grinned.

“If one is being hit by Mycroft and ten is being shot in the chest at close range, it’s probably a six,” he rasped. “Also, because I love you, I won’t offer to kiss you right now.”

Instead, Molly leaned across and kissed his forehead. When she pulled back, Sherlock saw her wrinkling her nose. Frowning, he lifted an arm to smell his skin.

“God, what  _is_  that?”

Usually, he had an extremely fine-tuned sense of smell, but now all he could smell was a general reek of beer, fried food and regret.  

“I’m sorry you had to sleep next to that, Molly,” he added.

She smiled, pausing to haul William away from the edge of the bed.

“You did try to snuggle me a few times in the night,” she replied, clearly biting down on a smile. “It was a bit…over-powering. And you were quite…um, amorous in your sleep, too.”

Sherlock felt a blush rise in his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he whispered. God, alcohol really did turn people into lowest-common-denominator idiots.

“That’s okay,” she winked. “I had Toby’s spray bottle next to the bed, just in case.”

She indicated to the plant-mister she used to discourage Toby from straying into their bed or William’s cot – or when he made attempts to mate with household objects.

“But did you have a good night?” she added, her hand moving over the duvet to take his. “You seemed like you had, when you got home.”

Sherlock reached across the bed to wiggle his phone out of William’s mouth (he had never bothered with a phone protector until the day he thought William had shorted-out his phone with drool).

“I…I actually think I did,” he said, blinking. “Although I suspect there are big sections missing from the timeline at the moment. I may change my mind if those memories ever resurface.”

“Well, William is really looking forward to his first trip to the planetarium,” Molly said, straight-faced.

Sherlock looked at her for a second, waiting as his brain tried to scrape together the relevant information from its furthest, most alcohol-damaged reaches.

“Oh,  _god_ ,” he said, he groaned.

When he opened his eyes again, Molly was grinning at him. After the previous night, taking an extremely active and inquisitive infant on an outing to a busy central London attraction was probably the least he deserved, but his fiancée was a merciful woman.

He felt Molly’s thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“I know this probably isn’t the best time to talk about it,” she said, glancing over to check what their son was up to. “But you, um, did mention something else last night…”

That sounded ominous. Sherlock tried to look for clues in Molly’s expression. Not angry or concerned…but tentative, maybe?

“Did I…?” he ventured, trying to buy his brain some time. Had he said something about their relationship? Had he started banging on about babies again?

She nodded, looking down at their hands for a moment before she met his eyes again.

“Yeah…” she said. “You said something about when William was conceived.”

That surprised him, considering that he generally avoided that particular topic of conversation when he could – he would never be completely rid of the shame and foolishness he felt about his motives that night.  

Then it hit him. The sound of his own voice rushed back to his frontal lobes, the impact like a sharp smack at the back of the head.

Oh god.

“Was…” Molly began again. “Was that true?”

Sherlock blinked, felt his heartrate begin to climb. It wasn’t like it was something that he could unsay, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to, did he? He had spent the last eighteen months trying to find the right time, circumstances and way to say it. Their first night together had resulted in the against-the-odds creation of a new life – any other significance was, understandably, likely to be consigned to the footnotes.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I mean, at least I think it is. To the best of my knowledge.”

Now, she was looking at him very strangely. He had to at least try to articulate it a little better.

“I…as you know, Molly, I spent a lot of time during my university years experimenting with – and under the influence of - a wide range of laboratory-grade narcotics, so, while I couldn’t absolutely swear to it, I  _believe_  that the first time we slept together was also the first time I had had sex. It…it felt like it was. I mean…”

He dared to glance a look at her.

“…I had never experienced anything like that before. My body and my mind…didn’t recognise it. It  _felt_  new.”

_And beyond incredible_ , he added in his mind. He could still recall in vivid detail that feeling, a kind of blissful shellshock, after it was over and he was lying in Molly’s arms. The feeling that had kept driving him back to her, night after night, long after his original plan had been executed, because he had unexpectedly lost himself in Molly and didn’t care if he never recovered his old self again.

Sherlock could feel himself blushing beneath Molly’s gaze – how the tables had turned over the past two years. She was regarding him quietly.

“I know I should have told you,” he said, just as much to fill the silence as anything else.

Molly edged further along the bed towards him, and crept an arm around his middle; Sherlock felt her fingers tracing circles just above his waistband. After all of this time, she knew exactly where he liked to be touched, which actions soothed him, which ones awoke other feelings.

“You didn’t  _have_  to tell me anything, Sherlock,” she said. “It was your business. I mean, I suppose I wish you’d felt you  _could_  have told me – but from what I can remember, it wasn’t really that kind of night…”

She wrinkled her nose at him impishly. It wasn’t indeed – Sherlock was fairly sure that no words were actually spoken once he had rather emphatically kissed her in the hallway of her flat.

“I do sometimes wish that we could go back and do things differently,” he said, ruefully.

Molly tilted her head to one side.

“Well, maybe it wasn’t the best way to start,” she said. “But if we’d stopped to have a frank conversation, then it might not have gone any further, or I probably would’ve dug out a condom and foiled your ridiculous plan to get me pregnant – either way, we wouldn’t have William.”

Naturally, they both turned to look at their son who, by this time, had managed to swing himself down onto the floor and was cruising around the bed, holding onto the duvet. He had a determined look on his face, and it wasn’t hard to deduce that he was heading straight for Sherlock’s phone again. They needed higher shelves in the bedroom.

“I’ve never been someone’s entire sexual history before,” Molly smiled, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes (an action which, in his current state, actually physically hurt).

“Thank you for your understanding, Molly,” he replied, drily.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she said, leaning towards him. “I never would have guessed.”

And because he really was just as ordinary as the next man, that  _did_  make him feel better.

“I had a thorough understanding of the theory,” he said, hearing the barely-concealed swagger in his own voice. “And I’ve always been very good with practical application.”

Molly snorted.

“Yeah, well, your chest speaks volumes about how good you think you are,” she said, poking him just below the sternum. “You’ll probably need to take a pan scourer in the shower with you to get that off.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

“I could leave it and you could help me wash it off later?” he suggested.

“I love you, Sherlock,” Molly replied. “But there’s no way I’m letting you smell like that all day.”

Before she could have time to see him coming, Sherlock lunged across the duvet and kissed her, covering Molly’s body with his and sparking a squeal of laughter and protest as she fell backwards and took him with her. While they were still somewhat in a heap, Sherlock glanced up to see William quietly edging away from them both, his father’s phone clasped victoriously in his chubby hand.

 

0000000000

The shower had provided some short-term relief (despite the angry, red patch across his chest where faint traces of pen could  _still_  be seen), and clean clothes and strong coffee were starting to make the day seem more manageable. When he’d emerged into the living room, Molly had handed him a glass of something bright orange and effervescent, which she claimed she swore by, despite the fact that it seemed to have absolutely no medical value, and seemed to serve no real purpose unless your goal was to turn your urine a lurid shade of tangerine. By this time, Sherlock had also come to the alarming realisation that the building works and ‘pneumatic drills’ were actually just another side-effect of his horrific hangover.

It was with some trepidation that he switched on his phone. Not only had Twitter exploded, but lazy journalists all over London had also used John’s awful #HolmesGetsHitched hashtag to populate the pages of their newspapers and websites. He even had an email from Kitty Riley, trying to offer him something or other in exchange for exclusive coverage of the wedding.

He turned his attention to simpler things, watching over William as he demolished his mid-morning snack. After a while, Molly pulled a chair up to the kitchen counter, too. She was preoccupied by something; Sherlock could tell by the way her hands flitted from one thing to the next, but Molly was out of bounds these days when it came to deductions.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” she began eventually. “I think I do want to see your sister.”

Sherlock felt his jaw fall open slightly, but her eyes were fixed very firmly on his.

“W-why?” he stammered, swallowing quickly. “The other day you were set against it. What’s changed your mind?”

She sighed, smoothing a hand over William’s hair.

“I…I still think it wasn’t a fair thing for Eurus to ask,” she said. “But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I feel like it’s something I…need to do. For the past eighteen months, I’ve been watching you go off to Sherrinford every couple of weeks, and I’ve been trying to pretend that it doesn’t concern me, that it’s somehow behind me and separate from my life. I wasn’t in denial about it, but it was…I don’t know…easier to focus on other things, to convince myself that I needed to let you handle that.”

“That’s what I wanted, too,” Sherlock replied. “You have enough to cope with, Molly, without taking on the burdens of my sister’s situation.”

Molly released one hand from her mug and slid it across the counter to meet his. He never grew tired of how perfect that ring looked on her finger.

“But we’re not doing that anymore, are we?” she said, smiling. “Trying to handle things on our own? Sherlock, this thing with your sister…it’s not going away any time soon, it will always be part of our lives in some way, and I need to deal with that.”

Sherlock swallowed, looking at the small fingers encircling his.

“Molly, please don’t do this for me,” he said. “And you don’t owe my sister anything, either; you don’t need to give her what she’s asked for. Especially now.”

This was selfishness on his own part, too, he realised. After everything that had happened with Adler, all he wanted now was a clear, uncomplicated path, at least for the next couple of weeks – to finally have Molly as his wife, to be allowed to enjoy that new status, to at least pretend that he brought more to their relationship than just baggage.

“I know,” Molly nodded. “And If I’m honest, I don’t  _want_  to deal with it, but I have to get to the point where I feel okay about it – more than that, I need to feel as though I’m in control of it, even in just some small way. I’d rather that than having it hanging over us when we get married.”

Although it wasn't what he wanted to hear at this moment, it didn't come as a surprise in the least. Molly wasn't fearless or reckless - she wouldn't take this decision lightly - but she also wouldn't allow herself be cowed by anyone or anything. She’d given that up when she’d first stood up to him. By facing up to Eurus, she was removing any power that fear - and his sister - had over her.

 "If it was up to me, I would never have you go to that place," he said quietly. 

She met his gaze, and Sherlock knew she understood why. 

"You think I would be in danger?" she asked, plainly. 

Molly had heard him speak about his sister's progress, had heard him say many times that he no longer felt she was a threat. Practical changes, too, meant that Sherrinford now operated very differently. 

"Enhanced security procedures and protocol, which amongst other things reduce the possibility of human error, make it impossible for my sister to carry out a repeat of her previous actions," he told her. "But Sherrinford is still a maximum-security prison for the most dangerous and uncontainable of offenders currently alive in the British Isles."

He rearranged their hands palm to palm, interlocking his fingers with hers.

"I couldn't call myself any kind of husband if I willingly let you go there, Molly."

He hadn't intended to use the word 'husband', but it was out there – and a mere technicality now, anyway – and he noticed the effect of its use on Molly. She smiled, huffed out a breath.

"Maybe we need a second opinion, then," she replied. "Someone who sees Eurus as often as you do, who can be objective, but also has your interests at heart."

Sherlock knew immediately what was coming next.

"I'd like to talk to Mycroft."

 

00000000000

In less than two hours, a council had been formed in the living room of 221B. Mycroft, who, ordinarily, would have no qualms about expressing to Sherlock the value of his time, promptly cleared his diary when he understood the nature of the request – and that it came from Molly. It was a measure of how serious his brother considered the issue that he bypassed several prime opportunities to comment on first the state of Sherlock’s post-stag night appearance and then, when he came upstairs to join the conversation, John’s, too.

“Are you certain this is something you want to do?” Mycroft brother asked carefully, settling himself in the sofa.

Molly was sitting in her yellow chair, leaning forward slightly, her hands in her lap.

“No, I’m not,” she replied simply. “But I was hoping that you could help me to make that decision.”

“By doing what?” Mycroft asked, frowning.

“By being honest with me,” Molly replied. “I…I know Sherlock doesn’t like the idea, but you…I know you can look at the situation dispassionately.”

Sherlock glanced at his brother and saw an odd flash of… _something_  pass across his face. Surprise? In that moment, he saw Mycroft’s entire regard for Molly laid bare; his longstanding respect for her was now imbued with something approaching fondness, and it showed.

“Not as dispassionately as you might hope, Molly,” he replied, with a quick, wry smile. “But I shall endeavour to assist if I can.”

Molly nodded, briefly looking across to Sherlock. She was trying to reassure him, he understood, that she  _was_  still thinking about him during this, was not oblivious to or dismissive of his fears.

Mycroft turned his body to better face hers.

“Physically, you would not be in any danger,” he said. “The security system and processes have had an entire overhaul since our sister’s…deeds. The best security consultants in the world, both government and private, have devised the current system, and the fact that Eurus has an exceptional ability to…influence others is no longer a factor. The new procedures require a complex relay of both human and computer-driven inputs, which so far have proven impregnable.”

Sherlock heard a sigh from John.

“For god’s sake, Mycroft, just tell her it’s a bad idea,” he said, tersely. “I’m sorry, Molls, but I can’t see any good coming from you visiting Eurus. I’ve served in war zones, I have seen been to some places that I thought would give Hell a good run for its money, but nowhere made me feel like Sherrinford. And…I know she’s your sister, but given what you know about her – after the  _devastation_  she wrought - Mycroft, can you honestly say that this isn’t just another con-trick? Because if Eurus wanted to finish the job – to really  _break_  Sherlock - this would be a damn good way to do it.”

_Thank god for John Watson_ , Sherlock reflected. The fact that his friend was horrifically hungover was probably only adding fuel to his ire.

“John, I can’t speak for my sister’s motives,” Mycroft replied evenly. “In the past they have defied even the coldest of logic. But I was there when Eurus spoke of wishing to see you, Molly, and I sensed no threat from it. Believe me, I would not allow our parents to continue to be regular visitors to Sherrinford if I believed that their physical or emotional wellbeing could be at risk. I know they see positive changes in Eurus, as do Sherlock and I…although we can’t quite allow ourselves the indulgence of hope at this point.”

“Oh, well, that’s reassuring,” John said, getting to his feet and turning away.

“Is it so hard to believe that a woman who wishes to reconnect with her family, to address damages done, would make such a request?” Mycroft queried.

John folded his arms, squared up to Mycroft.

“You make it sound as though they all fell out over Christmas dinner,” he retorted. “That woman,  _your sister_ , murdered five people, treated them as nothing more than expendable pawns in her game. She tried to force Sherlock to choose between us, she sought to destroy his friendship with Molly and, oh yes, there was the little matter of her trying to kill  _me_ , too. I like to think I’ve got a pretty decent capacity for forgiveness, but I also think we’re allowed to make exceptions.”

Sherlock looked at Molly, who he could tell was not unmoved by John’s arguments. Like him, Molly recognised that Mary still loomed large in John’s thoughts and reactions; Sherlock understood how it must seem to John, that he and Molly were taking unnecessary risks.

He was starting to wonder the same thing, when Molly spoke again.

“Mycroft, please talk me through what I can expect.”

 

000000000000

Things had to be put on hold when William woke up from his nap, and Sherlock had offered to go to him, to allow Molly more time to talk things through with Mycroft. John, angry in that way that only John could be, had returned downstairs to collect Rosie from Mrs Hudson’s and take her out for the afternoon. He was right, Sherlock knew – other things  _were_ more important. It was impossible not to acknowledge that, as he soothed his son, changed his nappy and held his tiny hands, as William attempted a wobbly walk across his room to the door.

He encountered Mycroft in the hallway outside the living room, his brother clearly waiting to consult him. On seeing Mycroft, William leaned out of Sherlock’s arms in order to grab a fistful of Saville Row tailoring – to his brother’s credit, he did nothing to try and remove the small, hygienically-suspect hand from his shoulder.

“Hello, William,” Mycroft said. “I trust you’ve slept well?”

Sherlock had noticed that his brother had a tone that he seemed to reserve only for his nephew. Mycroft was never going to be the most demonstrative of uncles, but he did appear to have allowed some small measure of sentiment to penetrate his armour.

“Myca,” William said, looking to Sherlock, as though for confirmation.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, slightly taken off-guard.

“He looks more like you every time I see him, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “It’s quite remarkable.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Hopefully, the next one will look more like Molly,” he said, responding to William’s demands to be put down on the floor. His son immediately spotted Mycroft’s umbrella leaning against the wall.

“The next one?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Hypothetically,” Sherlock clarified. “At the moment. No need to excite Mummy just yet.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. There was a brief pause before he spoke again.

“She seems determined to go,” he said, a nod towards the living room door.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, nodding. He didn’t need to have been there for that conversation to know the outcome.

“In which case, she will of course be afforded the utmost protection,” Mycroft continued. “You needn’t have any fear on that score, Sherlock.”

“I’ll go with her, of course,” Sherlock replied.

But immediately, Mycroft shook his head; Sherlock looked at him questioningly. But when he noticed his brother’s gaze fall on William he understood.

“I am as confident about Molly’s safety as I can reasonably be,” Mycroft said. “But it is impossible to eliminate all possibility of risk. This being the case, you should not both go.”

There it was - the familiar, frustrating feeling of his brother being right.

“But if I don’t go,” he replied. “Despite his little speech earlier on, John will insist on accompanying Molly instead, and I can’t allow him to do that.”

“I will go with Molly,” Mycroft said. “It can be arranged very quickly, and I will personally oversee every element of the visit. Molly will never be alone with our sister, and I will make the terms of the meeting very clear to Eurus. If you wish, you can travel to the south coast with Molly, and I can arrange for a second helicopter to be placed on standby for you…just in case.”

Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“It sounds as though it’s all decided,” he said finally, with a dry laugh. “And here I was thinking that the stag night would be the low point of my week.”

Mycroft responded to Sherlock’s laugh with one of his own.  

“Perhaps there are some positives to come out of this,” he replied, an eyebrow raised in consideration. “I am inclined to trust your fiancée’s judgement in most matters. After all, she is far more rational and far less emotional than you, brother mine.”

“Get us through this week, Mycroft, and you can insult me as much as you like for the next month, no retaliations,” Sherlock said, grimly.

“I shall look forward to it,” Mycroft replied, using a handkerchief to carefully remove traces of William’s drool from the handle of his umbrella. “Please tell Molly I’ll be in touch very soon to finalise arrangements.”

 

000000000000

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, next chapter – Molly meets Eurus...
> 
> After that, though, I can guarantee a lot of fluffy, comedic wedding stuff!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay with this chapter. I blame the Lake District - it's beautiful and majestic and all that, but how does anyone cope with the WiFi?! Oh, and writing Eurus for the first time was *really* hard - I don't think I'll be giving her a spin-off in a hurry :-)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. I think I'm done with angst for a while :-)

When Molly woke up just before six, she’d found herself alone in the bed - but she didn’t have to look far to find Sherlock. He was sitting on the chair in the bedroom, still in his dressing gown, his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepling his chin. Usually, when he couldn’t sleep (or didn’t need to), he’d go to the living room and lose himself in work, but something was obviously different that morning.

She’d beckoned him over to the bed for a morning kiss, and to try and coax from him how he was feeling – although she had a pretty good idea – and, with their son still fast asleep upstairs, they’d ended up making love. Molly had sensed Sherlock’s desire to take the lead, and she’d willingly relinquished control to him, knowing that it was his means of communicating things he couldn't bring himself to say. It was just about the most intense sex they’d ever had, and Molly had felt the full effect of Sherlock desperately trying to convey to her the strength of his love, his concern and his fears. She’d found herself whispering reassurances in his ear as they lay together afterwards, his body still half-covering hers, his hair matted with sweat and his lips pressed against her neck. She just hoped she had convinced Sherlock more than she had convinced herself.

The car had arrived early, and Molly tried to keep things as bright and as normal for William as she could before they left. But he wasn’t used to seeing both of his parents leave together, and fretted when he realised that he wasn’t going with them. As Molly kissed him goodbye, it all felt so wrong. This was their little boy, hers and Sherlock’s – she had never loved anything or anyone so fiercely and unconditionally, and she knew Sherlock felt the same. This was stupid, ill-judged, irresponsible.  It was exactly the kind of thing over which she had been silently critical whenever John and Mary left Rosie behind to follow Sherlock into dangerous waters.  

But still they left, Mrs Hudson trying to shush William in a sing-song voice while at the same struggling to suppress her own disapproval. John was going to help out, Molly knew (after all, William was getting to the stage where he was too much for a woman of eighty to manage alone), but she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t come to see them leave.

The car collected Mycroft from his apartment in Pall Mall, and the three of them travelled mostly in silence for the duration of the journey. Mycroft worked for much of the time, signing documents and reading dossiers, while Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the window - a coping strategy, Molly supposed, something to prevent him from saying something that might be hard to take back. She was grateful for that. He held her hand throughout, his fingers completely encircling hers on the seat between them.

As the car approached the helipad, Mycroft packed his paperwork into his briefcase and made a brief phone call, informing the pilot they would be ready to leave in ten minutes.

“I want regular updates, Mycroft,” Sherlock said sternly. “When you land, before you go in to see Eurus, when you leave, when the helicopter is in the air.”

“So you told me yesterday,” Mycroft replied. “I _was_ listening then, believe it or not. Eurus knows that she has a maximum of fifteen minutes with Molly, unless Molly chooses to leave the interview sooner. Therefore, taking into account security procedures, our entire round-trip should be no longer than three hours. You’ll be back home in time for high-tea, brother mine.”

“Yes, well, only you could think of food at a time like this,” Sherlock bit back.

Molly squeezed his hand; saw him screw his eyes shut for a moment.

Mycroft placed his phone in his pocket, and leaned in towards Sherlock, adopting a posture Molly had never really seen him use before. It made use of his superior height, but not in a way that was designed to dominate. Suddenly, she could see what a teenage Mycroft Holmes might have been like with his younger, more volatile brother. Molly was even more surprised when Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It is all in hand, Sherlock,” he said, any hint of facetiousness in his tone completely gone.

He then called to the driver, who opened the car door.

“I will ensure we’re ready for departure,” he said with a nod, before climbing out of the car.

This was Mycroft’s way, Molly realised, of giving them a few moments alone. Sherlock was staring straight ahead, his hands clasped between his knees. His jaw was tensed, and every few moments he would blink rapidly. Slowly, Molly slid her hand over to take his again.

“Sherlock, look at me,” she said softly.

She saw him swallow before slowly turning his head. Those eyes. It worked both ways - when she looked at William she saw Sherlock, but of course when she looked at Sherlock, she also saw William.

“I know how you feel,” Molly told him, edging along the seat until their legs were flush against each other. “I let you go for two years, remember? Most of that time I had no idea where you were or even whether you were still alive. And still, almost every day, you go off with John on a case, none of us really knowing what kind of danger you might be facing. But...I trust that you’ll do all you can to stay safe, Sherlock - and I promise you I’ll do the same.”

She wound her arm around his, clasping his hand tightly.

“You have to trust Mycroft, too,” she added. “I know he wouldn’t let me do this if he didn’t think he could protect me.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ve never had to trust him with anything that mattered quite so much,” he said. “It’s going to be a torturous three hours.”

“You’ve solved crimes in less time than that,” Molly smiled. “You should text Greg and see whether he’s got anything for you. You need to do something, or you’re going to send Mycroft’s driver insane.”

Sherlock managed a small, cautious smile.

“Perhaps I’ll try out my speech on him,” he said.

“Speech?”

“I only have six days, Molly,” he smiled. “I think my best man’s speech took at least three weeks to perfect.”

Molly smiled, leaning her weight against Sherlock’s body. He felt him tilt his cheek to rest it on the top of her head.

“Well, it it’s even half as good as that, it’s going to be incredibly memorable,” she giggled. That speech, of course, had been a watershed moment of sorts - when she finally admitted to herself that she was being unfair to Tom, and that whatever happened in the future with Sherlock (and even if the answer to that was nothing), her engagement couldn’t continue.

Sherlock twisted around so that he could tilt her chin, his eyes seeking hers.

“I love you,” he said, his voice a deep whisper.

It was strange to think that she was about to go to the very place he’d stood and said those words to her for the very first time. That breathy, sincere utterance - the second time he said it - was still so deeply ingrained in her.

“I love you, too,” she replied, moving her hand to cup his jaw.

Sherlock did the same, as he leaned in to capture her lips. It began gently enough, but then the kiss became deeper, hungrier, his whole hand cradling her head and making pausing for breath an impossibility. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then kissed her eyes one by one; with one final, soft, lingering kiss to the lips, he let her go.

Molly could hear the rotor blades now, could feel the wind they caused whipping up around the open car door. As Mycroft came into view again, the knot tightened in her stomach, the self-doubt flooding in once more. With one final glance to Sherlock, she accepted Mycroft’s hand and climbed out of the car.

000000000

 

It seemed a shame that she wasn’t experiencing her first helicopter ride under better circumstances, but as it was there wasn't a lot to see anyway. Miles and miles of grey, forbidding English Channel, and eventually, hoving into view, what was unmistakably an island fortress. The utter, hopeless isolation of the place made Molly’s stomach tighten - it was hard to conceive that someone could have spent their whole adult life somewhere so desolate and remote.

She followed Mycroft through the numerous security stations, where even he was required to surrender his phone and pass through a body scanner. She was unable to take much in beyond that, so overpowering was the feeling of impending...something. Danger wasn’t right. It felt more like she was about to be put to a test that she had little hope of passing.

Mycroft stopped as they approached a door that looked the same as dozens of others they had passed. Like those, this one was also guarded by armed guards in ski hats and donkey jackets.

“Eurus is beyond this door,” Mycroft said. “She has been told you’re here. I...I hope you don’t mind if I give you some advice with regards to this meeting, Molly. Keep your responses short and non-specific wherever possible, and avoid sharing anything that is too personal. In short, don’t give Eurus too much - we have learned to our cost that she can and will use anything against people if she has a mind to do it. And we can’t be certain of her motives regarding this interview.”

Molly nodded; Mycroft gave multiple intelligence briefings every day, but she appreciated the particular importance to him of this one.

“I understand,” she replied.

She watched as he placed his umbrella by the door, straightening his jacket as he stood up to his full height again.

“I expect that this thought has occurred to you, too, Molly, even if Sherlock hasn’t considered it,” he continued. “But over the past year and a half, our sister has become particularly reliant on Sherlock, her ongoing progress dependent on his regular visits and the time he devotes to their musical exchanges. The attachment is strong on both sides, but it really is the only human connection that Eurus has - and I fear that having you in front of her will bring home to my sister that-”

“That she has to share him?”

“Precisely so,” Mycroft replied, with a short nod.

He was right in that it _had_ occurred to her, but only because she had felt it too. Every fortnight, almost without fail, Sherlock would leave for Sherrinford - in fact, the only time she could recall him rescheduling was the week that William was born. Mostly it was fine - and Sherlock’s devotion to his sister’s rehabilitation was something that only made her more proud of him - but when William was spiking a fever or she’d been up half the night, his rigid timetable of visits was sometimes difficult to accept.

“I’m fine,” she said, fixing her eyes on the door. “I’m ready.”

She saw Mycroft give the merest of signals to one of the guards, and the next thing that she heard was the short blast of a security alarm, signalling that the door was being opened. Mycroft was set to lead her in, but Molly stopped him, instead stepping in front of him and leading the way into what was, for her, the Unknown - she had to set the tone for this meeting.

The woman she had come to meet was sitting on the edge of a bed within a glass-walled cell. Even though Sherlock had described the peculiarities of his sister’s facility, the sight of it was still unsettling, like a film come to life. Molly could sense Mycroft behind her, but she didn't turn to check; if this was going to work, she needed to act as though she and Eurus were alone - and that the fact of that didn't unnerve her.

Eurus turned to face her, and there were a few snatched seconds when Molly realised that they were each sizing up the other. With her long, dark tresses and sallow skin, Eurus Holmes looked almost other-worldly, but at the same time Molly was struck by a feeling of familiarity.

Although the cell was sparse, for the many security reasons Mycroft had discussed, it wasn't completely empty. Some scattered photographs, what looked like a sketchbook open on a low table, a small set of bookshelves - in fact, even from where she was standing, Molly recognised books that Sherlock must have taken from their own shelves.

“You came.”

The first words spoken by Eurus seemed to echo unnaturally around the room.

Molly willed herself to steady her breathing, just as Sherlock had talked of many times.

“You asked me to,” she replied, neutrally.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” Eurus said, her tone so flat as to be unreadable. It soundly oddly like something a child might say, and Molly couldn’t think of any way to respond to it – perhaps that was the intention.

“You were curious about me,” Eurus continued. “Understandable, I suppose. Don’t worry about offending me, Dr Hooper, I’m quite used to being gawped at like a medical oddity. I suppose that to most people who come here, it’s why they make the journey. But even if morbid curiosity is the reason, I'm still pleased that you’re here.”

Molly swallowed.

“Thank you for the beautiful music you wrote for William,” she heard herself saying. “He’s always loved hearing it. He seems to find it calming.”

Eurus nodded, presumably acknowledging the thanks, although her expression was hard to read.

“I suppose you would like to know why I wanted to see you, Molly - can I call you Molly? Mycroft tells me I should address you as Dr Hooper, but he’s always been such a tedious stickler for formalities, even when we were children, isn’t that right, Mykey? Besides, I have had a lifetime of visits from one doctor after another, and I can’t say the connotation is a positive one.”

“You can call me Molly, it’s fine,” she replied.

Eurus placed both hands flat on her knees, her back perfectly straight.

“You know, many of those doctors were convinced that damage had been done to my anterior insular cortex and prefrontal cortex, rendering me incapable of empathy or conscience. I allowed a brain scan, just to prove them wrong.”

“What...what are you saying?”

Eurus sighed.

“It’s easy to suppress your conscience when you know you’re superior to everyone around you,” she replied. “And empathy just felt like a weakness for others to manipulate. But the fact remains that I _am_ in possession of both...Sherlock helped me to...access those feelings. Just as you helped him to acknowledge and accept the qualities that _he_ had suppressed for so long.”

Molly felt a sudden rush of warmth for Sherlock, for the cause to which he had devoted himself with his sister.

“I can’t take all of the credit for that,” she replied. “There are lots of people who love and care for Sherlock.”

“He always was the lovable one,” Eurus said. “But like me, I suppose, he sought to sabotage his natural gifts. I know that you have forgiven Sherlock for all manner of transgressions that others would consider unconscionable - I suppose I hoped there was a chance that you could extend the same to me, for my sins against you.”

Molly blinked, wondering whether she had heard correctly - and if she had, whether it was some sort of game.

“You’re asking me to forgive you?”

Eurus slowly rose from the bed and took a couple of steps closer to the glass partition.

“I understand that my actions caused both you and my brother a great deal of pain,” she said, looking down and off to one side. “It meant nothing to me at the time - I saw you as nothing but a tool in a much larger scheme - but it something that is now a source of great sorrow...and regret.”

Molly frowned, tried to translate the expression on the other woman's face.

“What you did to me, to us, was cruel and heartless,” she said, feeling a rush of adrenaline surge through her. “You...you took something that was intensely private and forced it out into the open, against both of our wishes. But it was nothing compared to what you did to others. Asking for my forgiveness is too easy - I...I was able to grant that before you even asked for it; I had to, just so I could get on with my life and be able to support Sherlock - but what about the families of the people you killed, the others you saw as nothing more than tools or props? What about John Watson? You would have orphaned his daughter without a second thought, just to teach Sherlock a lesson.”

When she finished speaking, Molly could feel herself shaking; she balled her hands into fists, determined to keep it together.

“Sherlock has said the same things,” Eurus replied, glancing downwards. “And I understand that my actions caused such a degree of pain as to put me beyond forgiveness.”

“But that doesn't mean you shouldn't still say you're sorry for being the cause of that pain, if you genuinely mean it,” Molly replied. “It's up to those people to decide whether they accept it, whether they can ever consider forgiveness.”

Molly thought of John, and the embers of rage that clearly still lived within him, stoked at the mere mention of Eurus. As for the other families, she couldn't even begin to imagine their grief.

“You love my brother very much,” Eurus said.

The statement caught Molly off-guard. For a moment, she wondered whether it was meant as an accusation, but when she dared to look at Eurus, her expression was more one of curiosity.

“Yes,” Molly replied, nodding. “More than anyone I’ve ever loved.”

“You loved him even when he offered you nothing in return.”

It was something that Molly refused to feel ashamed of any longer. She nodded, acknowledging this assertion.

“Perhaps...you can explain it to me.”

Molly looked up, surprised.

“You...you want me to explain my love for Sherlock?” she asked, certain that this had to be a test. She thought of Mycroft, could almost feel the renewed tension in his posture as he hovered behind her. But instead, she saw Eurus resume her seated position on the bed, like a child awaiting a story.

“I... it's not something I can really explain,” Molly continued. “It isn’t something you can dissect and look at the working parts. You-you can't break it down into pieces and analyse it - I tried that a lot over the past few years when I was angry at Sherlock, angry at myself for loving him. It doesn't work like that. You just... it's just part of me, something that I can't separate myself from - even if you see it as a weakness.”

There was silence for a moment. Molly observed the slight furrow of Eurus’ brow.

“It can't be a weakness,” she replied plainly. “It gave you the strength to come here today. And it gives my brother the strength to come back, week after week. He and I both know that I will likely never leave this place, but he still comes. I know that he has a strong sense of familial duty, but his visits to me are motivated by more than that - Sherlock wants to be deserving of you. He doesn't speak of you or your child very often - I understand he is wary, protective - but I have observed him over many months, the gradual changes in him. I know those changes are because of you...so I hope you understand now, Molly, why I was just as curious to meet you as you were to meet me?”

Molly took in the words, digested them. She hadn't considered that what seemed normal and everyday to her could - despite her enormous intellect - seem foreign and fascinating to Eurus. Children learned positive relationship patterns from the adults around them, and in a sense, since her breakdown, Eurus was still on that journey.

“Eurus, our time is up,” Mycroft put in. “Molly has to return to London. I know you appreciate the time she has given you.”

Eurus closed her eyes briefly, as though pretending her brother wasn't there.

“I...I do have to go,” Molly said, watching Eurus’ face closely. “Sherlock will be back to see you soon.”

She stopped short of making a promise she knew she mustn’t make alone - but she saw from the small smile that appeared on Eurus’ face that saying it out loud wasn't actually necessary.

“Will you accept my good wishes for your wedding?” Eurus said. “Unless you consider it a bad omen.”

“Of course not,” Molly replied quietly. “Thank you.”

In another version of reality, she realised, this woman could have been sitting in the front row for the wedding ceremony, ready to accept her as a sister. As it was, Molly knew Eurus wouldn't be far from Sherlock's thoughts on that day.

Molly reached for the clasp on her shoulder-bag, all the while keeping her eyes on Eurus.

“I have something for you,” she said, before glancing over her shoulder. “Mycroft?”

He stiffened, but nodded his assent and gestured towards a hatch in the wall. She hadn’t planned this, hadn’t intended it, but Molly slipped the photograph out of her wallet, where it was kept behind the plastic window. It wasn't yet creased, having only been printed out and placed there a few days ago. The three of them were squashed into Sherlock's chair, William lunging to grab the phone while Molly pressed a smacker of a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. A few seconds earlier, Sherlock had been feigning exasperation at her insistence on family selfies – and it was because of the surprised, disarmed smile on his face that she had chosen that particular photo.  

In some ways, Molly realised, it would have been easier just to give Eurus this picture rather than to try to put their relationship into words.

Eurus took the photograph from the chute at her side, and, after examining it for a few long moments, set it down on top of her books. Molly watched as Eurus picked up the sketchpad and withdrew several sheets of paper, which she folded into two separate bundles and placed into the chute.

Trying not to convey any reticence, Molly took out the papers and unfolded them. Sheet music. The staves, bars and notation all handwritten in Eurus’ soaring, almost antiquated script. The first piece bore the title ‘William John Bartholomew Holmes, on the event of his birth’, and as Molly’s eyes quickly scanned the notes, she could unpick the now-familiar, gentle melody.

The second piece was untitled.

“Perhaps my brother can play it for you,” Eurus said, pre-emptying Molly’s words. “I am hopeful that you will both understand its meaning.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, gently refolding the papers.

Eurus’ pale green eyes fixed on her for a moment, but Molly didn't allow herself to flinch. Instead, she nodded once more, and Eurus slowly nodded in return.

“It was good to see you, sister,” Mycroft said, stepping forward. “I will make arrangements for the things you have asked for.”

The words were businesslike, but there was an undercurrent of gentleness to what he said.

“You’ll be returning with our parents and brother?” Eurus replied. Again, although Eurus maintained a detached expression, Molly felt she heard something in the woman's tone that was less assured, more vulnerable.

“In ten days,” Mycroft confirmed.

When Molly felt Mycroft’s guiding hand at her elbow, she realised that there wasn’t going to be a goodbye in any normal sense of the word. Instead, Eurus’ eyes locked with hers once more before the youngest Holmes sibling withdrew further into her cell – the last Molly saw of her before the door closed behind them, she was cradling her violin, gazing, almost trance-like, with her bow poised.  

Within half an hour, Molly had caught her first sight of the mainland. Mycroft had asked after her wellbeing once they were safely strapped into the helicopter, in his slightly mannered but genuinely-felt way, and she’d automatically replied that she was fine. All things considered, she did feel fine – at that moment, at least. Tomorrow might tell a different story. Once the helicopter lifted into the air, Molly felt the tension drain from her body, tension that had held her like a vice since the moment she and Sherlock got into the car that morning.

_Sherlock_.

  
Molly had seen Mycroft send a text once the helicopter was in the air, and she immediately fished into her bag for her own phone. They were approaching the clifftops now, and in another couple of minutes she could see the lone black car parked to one side of the white H on the tarmac. Before she had time to compose a message, her phone vibrated.

**I’ve never witnessed a more beautiful sight - SHx**

Molly smiled, feeling tears starting to well in her eyes. She could see him hundreds of feet below, climbing out of the car beneath them. The feeling was more than mutual.

“Slight change of plan,” Mycroft said, leaning closer to be heard above the din of the blades. “I’ve always thought the city looks rather spectacular when arriving by helicopter, so if you can bear pausing to pick up that rather desperate-looking figure down on the tarmac, I thought the three of us could continue on to London Heliport. That way, you could be back with your son in less than an hour.”

Nothing sounded more perfect at that moment.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” she said, smiling, swiping the first tear from her cheek.

It was a lovely gesture, but Molly hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t be too offended if she didn’t appreciate the view as much as she should – once Sherlock was safely beside her in the helicopter, she didn’t plan to spend a lot of time looking out of the window.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Watching the helicopter rise into the sky that morning, Sherlock realised that not since William’s dramatic arrival into the world had he felt quite so terrified and powerless. That day, he’d been struck full-on by the disadvantages of caring and sentiment, paralysed by the fear that he’d opened himself up to both, only to be on the verge of possibly losing the only woman he’d ever loved, and their unborn child. That helplessness was horribly familiar, but on this occasion, of course, Molly had made a conscious decision to leave his protection – and with his blessing, too. ‘Blessing’, of course, wasn’t quite right – but he had had to fight the instinct to truly speak from his heart, because his heart was selfish and biased.

When he climbed into the helicopter he might, he accepted later, have gone a little overboard with their reunion. Molly had been happy to indulge him, but Sherlock realised it was probably more than his brother wanted to see, particularly in the close confines of a helicopter. He blamed the immense feeling of relief, and wouldn’t apologise for it.

Arriving home, they collected William from Mrs Hudson. Their son seemed to have forgiven them for abandoning him for the day, although Sherlock suspected that might have had something to do with the egg custard he was eating at the time. Although as soon as Molly had lifted him out of the highchair, William didn’t want to go down again, and they spent the next couple of hours playing baby-tag, constantly passing him between them when either needed to do something that required two hands. That said, Sherlock was certain that he was comforted and soothed by having his son’s familiar weight in his arms as much as William was by being there.

John and Rosie had been at Mrs Hudson’s, too, and there had been a brief relating of the day’s events – as much as was possible while Rosie tried to show Molly what was possibly a unicorn or just a very festive horse. John had clearly been relieved that everyone was back home safely, but there had been a stiffness in his posture and a stiltedness in his tone, and Sherlock knew that he was still somehow hurt by the whole episode.

Later that evening, Sherlock was coming downstairs from saying goodnight to William. He had heard Mrs Hudson shout that a delivery driver was at the door, and as came out of William’s bedroom his stomach growled in response to the smell from the kitchen. But when he entered the kitchen, Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Surrounded by paper take-away bags, Molly was standing by the counter, crying. Not just crying, but real weeping. Her shoulders were shaking as she braced her arms on the worktop, although when she realised he was standing there, she immediately stood up and made an attempt to dry her eyes.

“Molly…?”

Rarely had Sherlock felt so inadequate. He could count on one hand the number of times Molly had cried in front of him, and he still wasn’t very good at this. He tried not to look too alarmed, but it clearly didn’t work.

“I’m okay, Sherlock,” she said, swiping at her cheek and trying to smile through it. “Don’t worry.”

He frowned, managing finally to un-root himself from the spot and move towards her.

“It’s rather too late for that, I’m afraid,” he said, skirting the counter and placing his hand over hers. “Did…did something happen today?”

The question sounded moronic, as though he’d been hit on the head and completely forgotten that his fiancée had been to a maximum-security prison and met a serial murderer, who just happened to be her future sister-in-law.

Molly gave a short, tearful laugh.

“It wasn’t really a typical day,” she replied, smiling. “I just…”

She didn’t get any further before the tears came again. Sherlock closed the distance between them and put his arm around Molly’s back, encouraging her into his arms. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders - feeling her whole body heaving - and with the other hand he cradled the back of her head. Molly’s arms wound around his waist and melded their bodies together fiercely; Sherlock pressed his lips to the crown of her head. As he held her there, feeling each ragged gulp of air, each shiver, Sherlock realised that this was a release, catharsis.

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” he murmured, his fingers slipping from her head to brush her cheek.

Molly sniffed, tilting her face to look up at him.

“No, I’m glad that I went,” she replied, fingering one of his shirt buttons. “I don’t regret that at all. It’s just…I suppose I thought I had prepared myself…but I don’t think anything really could have prepared me for that.”

Sherlock nodded and, stooping slightly, he scooped Molly into his arms and carried her around John’s chair (yes, oddly, it _was_ still John’s chair) and into the living room. He lowered them both into his own chair and gathered Molly into his lap, looping his arms around her. They had often done this when she was pregnant, Sherlock’s fingers caressing the globe of Molly’s belly, revelling in the softness of her curves and always hoping for a response from their child.

“According to Mycroft, you handled it all remarkably well,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. He’d spoken to his brother briefly as they went their separate ways at the heliport, and exchanged some short text messages since. Mycroft was usually about as generous with his compliments as he was with his food.

Molly laughed, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“I just tried to be truthful,” she replied. “There didn’t seem to be any point in anything else; I knew she would see straight through it.”

She continued to tell him about the visit, and as she did so, Sherlock could feel Molly relaxing, beginning to come to terms with it all. He wished he could think of some wise words, some sage advice, but it just seemed to enough that he was listening – of course it was; that was what Molly had always done for him.

“You know, I thought I had forgiven her,” Molly continued, curling into him more closely. “And that’s what I told Eurus when she asked - that I had forgiven her long ago - but I knew as I was saying the words that all I’d actually done was to try to put it behind me, to bundle all those feelings into a box I could store away, and that wasn’t the same thing as forgiveness.”

Sherlock nodded, trailing a finger back and forth along Molly’s arm; she had had enough to deal with in the aftermath of Sherrinford, probably too much to fully process how she felt about his sister.

“And what about now?” he asked.

Molly sighed, gave a small shrug.

“Part of me feels like a traitor for forgiving her,” she replied. “A traitor to who, I don’t know – maybe to the other victims, maybe just to human decency. But then I look at you, at the compassion you’ve shown her, at the responsibility you’ve taken on – you _have_ forgiven her, and I…I feel like we can’t be at odds over this. It won’t work, with me still harbouring some kind of…grudge or resentment. I have to forgive her for _you_.” 

Not for the first time in their relationship, or even that week, Sherlock felt completely humbled by the woman in his arms. Her strength, her bravery and her refusal to be cowed by anything – they were admirable qualities on their own, but it was Molly’s dignity, her grace and her generous heart the elevated those things even further, and floored him every time.

“I…I am in awe of you, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said. He lifted her hand again, placing another kiss on the knuckle close to her engagement ring. “And I am so sorry that you are marrying into what it quite possibly the most defective and dysfunctional family the nation has to offer.”

Molly smiled, her eyes twinkling slightly in the lamp-lit room.

“It’s never boring,” she said. “And I’ve heard that the younger son is the World’s Only Consulting Sex-God, so that’s a bonus.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Well, now that you’ve confirmed that you like them,” he replied. “It might be safe to break the news to you that they want to come up to London a couple of days early. As in tomorrow.”

Molly smiled incredulously.

“You said yes to that?”

“They’ve got a bloody flat here now – there’s not much I can do to stop them,” he sighed. “It’s probably too much to hope that a sinkhole might open up in their street. Although, how difficult do you suppose it would be to have their road closed off for an ‘emergency’? Gas leak comes to mind – or possibly an infestation of some sort.”

Molly swatted him lightly.

“Actually, I did say yes,” Sherlock admitted. “I…I think they’re anxious to see you. They’re…aware of your meeting with Eurus, and I think they want to check that you’re all right – or possibly my mother wants to grab Mycroft and I by the ear and bang our heads together for allowing you to go. Either way, I’ve said yes for an easy life…if that’s okay with you?”

She grinned, winding an arm around his neck and bringing her face in close to his.

“Of course it’s okay with me,” she said. “It’s very sweet of them.”

Sherlock pulled a face. Hearing his parents and the word ‘sweet’ in the same sentence was horribly disconcerting.

“And you can thank them for William’s outfit, too,” Molly added, raising an eyebrow, all-innocence.

Sherlock frowned in response, gesturing with his eyes to the takeaway cartons slowly cooling in the kitchen.

“I think I may have just lost my appetite,” he pronounced.

“Fine by me,” Molly grinned. “Means I get first pick. I’ll leave you some prawn crackers, and that weird thing you like with the yellow sauce that I can’t eat because it looks like vomiting bile.”

She kissed him quickly, and darted off his knee towards the kitchen. Sherlock felt his heart swell a little, taking the edge off the weightiness of the evening. They would get through this, Sherlock acknowledged; apart from anything, Molly wouldn’t allow them to fail.

0000000000

 

After eating, Sherlock urged Molly to go and take a bath while he tidied away the plates and leftovers. He also worked his way around the living room, retrieving and trying to find a home for William’s toys and belongings, which seemed to invade every available space. In the end, he dumped an armful of them into Toby’s basket – it wasn’t as though the cat spent any meaningful amount of time there anyway.

As he reached the desk, his fingers lingered over the folded sheaf of papers that Molly had brought back from Sherrinford. He knew it was a new composition, but since arriving home, his priorities had been elsewhere; Sherlock had suspected it might be more than Molly wanted to deal with that night.

He picked up the papers, unfolded them, and started to scan the notation; his fingers lightly traced the notes, his brain immediately starting to hear the melody, even picturing Eurus’ posture and expression as she played. But reading a language was one thing, and hearing it spoken was another entirely.

Sherlock felt a change in the room and looked up; Molly was standing near the doorway in her pyjamas and dressing gown. She had that fresh, post-bath glow, and looked utterly beautiful.

“Do you know what it is?” she asked, coming further into the room.

“I think so,” Sherlock nodded.

Molly walked past him to the desk and carefully picked up his violin and bow before holding them out to him.

“Will you play it for me?”

Sherlock frowned, searching Molly’s face.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, and Sherlock reached out to take the instrument from her hands. He set the sheet music down on his stand while Molly took a seat on the sofa. Then he played. It was a slow, meditative piece, with exquisite little crescendos and diminuendos, and repeated refrains the likes of which Sherlock had never heard before.

When he finished playing, he held his bow there for a few moments, allowing the final note to breathe. Sherlock finally let out his own breath and blinked; he refocused on Molly, who looked as though she was still processing what she’d heard.

“It’s what she couldn’t say,” Molly said, finally. “Eurus…she asked for forgiveness, but…but there was no apology first. This is her apology…isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, setting down the violin and moving to sit beside Molly. “I don’t think Eurus possesses those words or the ability to express them. Having to say you’re sorry….it makes you vulnerable, it’s an admittance of error. My sister…she never felt any sense of fault or blame. Perhaps this is the best she can do.”

Molly moved her hand to his knee, and Sherlock covered it with his own, brushing his thumb over the ring (he was impatient for the moment it would be joined by another one).

  
“I’m willing to take it,” Molly replied, looking at their hands. “Although I think John is going to need more than that.”

“I have to allow John to feel what he feels,” Sherlock replied, wrapping his free arm around Molly’s shoulder. “I couldn’t presume to tell him otherwise. He had barely recovered from Mary’s death when all of this happened, so it’s hardly surprising, I suppose, that he still feels deeply about it. He has been…good enough not to allow my sister’s actions to affect our friendship, or his feelings towards the rest of my family – perhaps that is the best that _he_ can do.”

Molly raised her hand to cradle his cheek, using it to bring him closer for a kiss; she wasn’t the first to kiss him, of course, but the tenderness and care had been completely new to him. Molly kissed him to make _him_ feel good as well as for herself.

“Four nights,” she whispered, when they broke apart. She was gazing up at him, teeth biting her bottom lip to hold back a grin.

“Eighty-four hours and forty-five minutes,” Sherlock replied, automatically. He cleared his throat, adding, “Approximately.”

Molly looked at him wide-eyed, then giggled.

“Have you got a countdown clock running inside that big brain of yours?” she smiled, tapping the side of his head.

Sherlock felt himself blush slightly.

“I like it when the numbers move more quickly,” he said. “More satisfying that way.”

Molly smiled, and pushed herself up to place a kiss on his temple where she had tapped it a moment earlier.

“Mrs Hudson once sat over there and told me that marriage changes people in ways I couldn’t imagine,” Sherlock said, turning to face Molly. “That isn’t going to happen to us, is it?”

Molly tilted her head to one side, pursing her lips in thought.

“Sherlock, I think you’ve done more than enough changing in the past couple of years,” she said. “And while I love Martha to bits, remember she _did_ marry a drugs baron. That probably would change things quite a bit.”

“Yes, I did remind her of that at the time,” Sherlock replied, feeling slightly vindicated. “But _you’re_ marrying a sociopath.”

Molly’s brow furrowed, and she hooked a finger into one of the gaps between his shirt buttons, pulling him closer.

“You are not and never have been a sociopath, Sherlock Holmes,” she said firmly. “You are the sweetest, funniest, most thoughtful and considerate man I know.”

She smooshed his cheeks together for emphasis, as though he was a particularly loveable dog.

“You just like to hide it sometimes,” she added, suppressing a smile. “And as for me? Well, you’ll just have to put a ring on it and find out.”

Sherlock snorted, and tackled her to the sofa, pinning her lightly with his body while his fingers zeroed in to what ample experience had taught him were Molly’s most ticklish spots. She shrieked, trying to curl herself into a ball for protection, at which point Sherlock switched tactics and instead rapidly kissed every scrap of bare skin that presented itself to him. The final one briefly made contact with Molly’s lips, before he pulled back to gaze down at her.

“I’m willing to take my chances,” he replied.

Molly smiled, reaching up to kiss him again before rolling off the sofa and holding out her hand to him.

“How about we get some sleep?” she said. “There’s a lot we’ve got to get through in the next eighty-four hours and forty-five minutes.”

Spending the next eight hours or so wrapped around Molly sounded like the perfect antidote to the stresses of the previous twelve. 

“There’s your mum and dad, for one thing,” Molly added, raising a roguish eyebrow at him over her shoulder.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could hardly conceive of the excitement levels that must be taking over his parents’ little corner of West Sussex; his mother was probably crossing off the days on her godawful _Wrinkly Wit_ kitchen calendar.

“I will definitely require all of my strength,” he sighed, feeling Molly squeeze his hand as she led him to the bedroom.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, next chapter, the parental unit are back for some last-minute wedding interference... :-)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang all gather together one more time before the big day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this being such a long chapter - I couldn't find a natural break! (Or maybe I should just edit myself more strictly.) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. It's fluffy.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated on the table in front of him, and the living room was briefly filled by a burst of ‘O Fortuna’ from  _Carmina Burana_ , causing William to jump slightly in his highchair and look up at Sherlock in wide-eyed alarm.

Molly leaned around from the kitchen.

“Sherlock, why are you playing William the music from  _The Omen_?”

Sherlock kissed William’s head for reassurance.

“From what?” he queried.

“Never mind,” Molly replied, shaking her head. “Just…why that music? You’re not considering it for when I walk down the aisle?”

“I thought it would make a suitable text alert for my app,” he explained. “Needed something with an appropriate sense of foreboding and despair.”

He turned back to his son.

“That sound tells me, William,” Sherlock said, breaking his biscuit in half and handing him a piece. “That your grandparents are within a one-mile radius of our sitting room.”

“Sherlock!” Molly chastised him from the kitchen.

He was actually quite relieved to find the app was still working; he was starting to think that Mycroft had tampered with his phone – or their mother’s – to render it ineffective.

“Shall we resume our activity?” Sherlock said, turning back to William. He got the feeling that his son would go along with most things if there was a steady supply of snacks.

“Let’s bring out Mr Busy Bear,” he continued, arranging the supposedly-educational teddy bear on his back on the table.

“What are you up to?” Molly asked, crunching on a carrot stick. He’d told her not to bother with food for his parents (for one thing, it only encouraged them to linger), but somehow it had turned into a pre-wedding get-together, with Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John all given an open invitation to come round later.

“Deductions,” Sherlock replied. “We’re starting with some basics.”

Molly came a little closer, just in time to see him arrange a butter knife on top of the teddy bear.

“Sherlock, please don’t tell me Mr Busy Bear is dead,” she said.

“For the purpose of this exercise, yes.”

“Could you at least swap the knife for your spoon?” Molly asked.

Sherlock baulked, blinking at her.

“Molly, whoever heard of death by teaspoon? It’s going to put a lot of holes in William’s reasoning.”

Molly smirked, planting a kiss amongst William’s curls.

“He’s worked out how to get into the kitchen cupboards, he knows when I’m trying to pass off homemade food as shop-bought,” Molly replied. “For a nine-month old, I think he’s already doing pretty well with his reasoning.”

Sherlock waited until she was safely back in the kitchen before exchanging the cutlery again. He then brought out three additional soft toys that had been retrieved from Toby’s basket, and arranged them on the table. Finally, he reached under the table and produced William’s deerstalker, which he placed on his head – and which immediately came off again, and was cast onto the floor.

“Okay, you don’t like the hat,” Sherlock said, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. “Understandable. Perhaps you could stop chewing our murder victim’s foot, though – I think that would count as compromising the crime scene. Even your Uncle John manages to restrain himself in that regard.”

The bear was placed back in his original position, and Sherlock began going through the ‘suspects’. William immediately made a grab for the one closest to him.

“Aha, the bee!” Sherlock said, as William excitedly waved the toy around. “Yes, an interesting choice. However, observe the bee’s lack of opposable thumb – or in fact, hands or claws of any kind. This would make it particularly difficult for the bee to have inflicted a fatal knife wound.”

William jammed the bee’s rubber antenna into his mouth.

“Yes, it’s fine. This suspect is of no further use to us anyway,” Sherlock told him. “Who shall we consider next?”

Responding to Sherlock’s encouragement, William grabbed a different toy and started to shake it to hear the rattle inside.

“So - Captain Calamari,” Sherlock said. “Of course, as we’ve previously discussed, he is clearly an octopus and not a squid, and therefore named only for the purpose of pleasing and convenient alliteration. However, considering that this octopus is also apparently a pirate captain, presumably in charge of a large sea-going vessel, perhaps we’re overlooking the pertinent points. Although, we must consider that Captain Calamari is already in possession of a sharp and deadly hooked tentacle – yes, the one you have in your mouth at the moment – so, why would he bother to use a knife?”

“Teaspoon,” Molly corrected him from the kitchen.

“The other – and this is where you will need to call on your reserves of factual information, William – is the fact that the suspect could only survive a matter of minutes outside of water. He would have been  _dead_  before he had even reached the crime scene.”

“Ded!”

“Indeed.”

“Sherlock, did William just say ‘dead’?” Molly queried, bringing a mug of tea in from the kitchen.

“He’s very gifted,” Sherlock smiled, proudly.

“Yes, but-”

“Ded!”

“We were just reaching our conclusions, weren’t we, Will?” Sherlock continued, patting his son’s hand. “Now that we have eliminated our first two suspects, that process of deduction leaves us with who?”

He gently nudged the last toy towards William until he took the cue to pick it up.

“Yes! The monkey!” Sherlock declared. “Not only does he possess the ability to wield…cutlery… to dangerous effect, but he is also perfectly capable of scaling the outside of the building to gain access to the victim’s home through the window that has been carelessly left open.”

William was looking at him delightedly, and although Sherlock accepted that it was probably more the liveliness of the activity than the actual activity itself that was exciting his son, it still felt…affirming, warming. Bloody marvellous, if the truth be told.

Molly was watching them both, smiling.

“You… don’t mind me doing this?” Sherlock asked, with a vague wave of his hand.

“No. Besides, he’s going to sit in on a post-mortem the next time I’m back in work,” Molly replied, her face spreading into a grin.

They were both surprised by a knock on the door. Molly got up to open it and, lo and behold, there were his parents. How the hell had that happened? His mother immediately engulfed Molly in a hug before making a beeline for William, who was twisting around in his highchair to see what was happening.

“How’s my curly little darling?” she cried, bending to kiss William’s forehead.

“And my other curly little darling,” she added, ushering Sherlock to his feet so she could crush him in a hug. He could only conclude that at some point in the past eighteen months, he must have accidentally given his mother  _carte blanche_  to hug him whenever she pleased. He could see Molly stifling a smile.

“How did you even get in?” he blurted.

“Yes, thank you, dear, we  _did_  have a good journey,” his mother said, looking at him pointedly.

“Mrs Hudson was outside talking to the chap from the caff,” his father put in. “She said to come up. Says she’ll join us soon.”

“And look, you’re having a tea party!” his mother exclaimed, gesturing to the soft toys on the table, surrounded by cutlery. “How sweet, Sherlock! You loved to play tea parties when you were little, didn’t he, Timothy?”

Again, Molly caught Sherlock’s eye, hiding her smile behind her hand. He appreciated that it was a source of great sadness to her that her parents were no longer around, but for God’s sake, he could see the advantage at times like this.  

“Yes, although I think it was Myc who introduced him to it,” his father replied. “We used to have to play Afternoon Tea at the Ritz, didn’t we? He used to borrow my old cravats and wear them with his school uniform.”

“Sounds like fun!” Molly said brightly, taking their coats. “Is Mycroft coming later?”

“Yes, shouldn’t be far behind us,” his mother said. “Now, let me get my hands on my gorgeous grandson!”

His mother hoisted her grandson out of his highchair and took him over to the sofa. His father lowered himself onto the sofa beside her, and they both proceeded to make an almighty fuss over William. Would he and Molly be this ridiculous when  _they_  had grandchildren?

“Can I get you a tea?” Molly asked.

“Sherlock can do that, can’t you, darling?” his mother said, all charm. “Timothy and I were hoping to, ah, talk to you.”

Sherlock exchanged glances with Molly as he retreated to the kitchen. His instinct, of course, was to listen in, but he was confident that she would share later anything she felt she  _could_  share. His parents would be seeking reassurance that Molly hadn’t suffered long-term psychological harm from her visit to Sherrinford, but Sherlock suspected that they were anxious for an outside opinion, too. Someone who wasn’t a blood relative with their own latent trauma, or a psychiatrist offering a cold, professional assessment. His parents trusted Molly, valued her opinion.

Sherlock checked through his emails while he made the tea. While most things in relation to the wedding were in place, there were still one or two loose ends – one of which was the small matter of a honeymoon. Small was, unfortunately, the right word for it; no fortnight-long sex holiday for them, so instead he faced the challenge of how to make the most of a single night away with his new wife. The latest email suggested that he’d found his answer, but he would need some help with the logistics – seeing his brother that afternoon might have an upside after all.

Sherlock was just giving the milk a sniff when his father rounded the corner into the kitchen. He had his hands stuffed into his pockets, and he was rocking on his heels in that horribly contented way of his.

“So, old chap,” he said, smiling. “Three days to go, eh?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Thank you, Dad. If you hadn’t said that, I might have forgotten entirely.”

His father, ever-immune to sarcasm, continued unabated.

“I won’t ask you if you’re getting the jitters, because I know how much you want this,” he said. “It’s been a long time coming.”

Sherlock looked at his father, wondering how it was possible that a man who owned eighteen novelty aprons could also be surprisingly perceptive at times.

“I was the same,” he continued. “Terribly excited. Although in my case, it had taken me so long to persuade your mother that I was also terribly afraid that she might change her mind. She could have had the pick of the maths department.”

Sherlock tried not to pull a face; his father was probably putting slightly too much stock in that fact.

“Well, luckily for me, most of the people Molly works with are not really at the dating stage of their lives,” he replied.

His father chuckled, drawing two of the cups of tea towards him on the counter. But before he picked them up, he opened his mouth again.

“So, am I allowed to ask whether there’s a pie in the Aga?”

 Sherlock frowned, glancing around automatically to confirm that they hadn’t in fact had a huge range installed in the kitchen without him noticing.

“A what?”

“My little spin on ‘a bun in the oven’,” his father winked, clearly delighted with his playful little jest. “I wondered whether another little Holmes might be on the way yet?”

Sherlock blinked, paused in stirring his tea.

“No, not yet,” he replied, unable at that moment to think of anything further to add.

“Ah well, chin up, Sherlock,” his father smiled. “Plenty of time for all that. And William is a treasure – we do love being able to see him more often.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Better take this tea to Mum. Wouldn’t want it to go cold.”

His father held up his hand for a second, a faraway little smile starting to play on his lips.

“You know, I  _do_  remember something we did differently when we were trying to conceive you. Your mother had to-”

_Oh, dear God._

“Did I hear correctly – Sherlock’s making tea?”

Around the corner and into the kitchen stepped Mycroft, dressed in his long wool coat and carrying paper carrier bags. Mycroft might have rescued him from almost-certain death at the hands of a Siberian prison guard, but never before had Sherlock been so relieved by his brother’s timely intervention.

“Yes! Yes, I am,” Sherlock said quickly. “Dad, here’s yours. Take Mummy’s as well. Take biscuits – as many as you want.”

Their father smiled, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“We can pick this up again later,” he said, squeezing the top of Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock’s whole body froze until his father was safely out of his eyeline. Mycroft was, naturally, watching his discomfort with wry amusement.

“What did I just interrupt?” he asked, placing the bags down on the kitchen island.

“I…I think our father was trying to give me some variation on The Talk,” Sherlock said, feeling a palpable shiver run down his spine.

“Now?” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, that would go some way to explaining why you were such a late-blooming flower.”

“Pot, kettle, big brother,” Sherlock replied. “What’s in the bags? Did Lady Smallwood give you your pocket money early?”

“Actually, Sherlock, I brought a few offerings from one of my favourite  _charcuteries_. I understood this was some sort of pre-nuptial get-together,” Mycroft said. “And Alicia sends her regards, along with the bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal that I was just about to put in your fridge.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, slightly chastened. “Just…move a few things around.”

Mycroft looked slightly askance when he opened the fridge; it was clearly difficult to find a champagne bottle-shaped space in amongst last night’s takeaway leftovers and the Tupperware containers full of William’s home-made dinners. Sherlock almost suggested the fridge in the lab upstairs, but even he was unsure of its contents at the moment – recent events had left little time for experimentation.

“I take it everything is in place for the big day?” Mycroft asked, lifting small, exquisitely-wrapped boxes from the paper bags. “Everyone seems remarkably calm. I thought perhaps you’d drugged our parents’ tea again.”

Sherlock offered a silent, sarcastic laugh.

“It’s all in place, Mycroft,” he replied. “Including a rather spectacular cake, you’ll be glad to hear.”

“Rings?”

“Yes. I’m not an idiot.”

“Flowers?”

“Probably. Not my area.”  

“Photographer?”

“Yes. You vetted her yourself, remember? Not taking any chances after John’s wedding.”

“Spare change of underwear?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his smirking brother.

“I am not nervous, Mycroft,” he said, enunciating each word separately. 

“Of course not,” his brother replied, with an imperious smile. “You have it all under control. Although you understand, Sherlock, that should you need anything, you only have to ask.”

Following his brother’s lead, Sherlock started to unwrap the various food packages, inhaling approvingly. Sometimes it paid to be related to one of London’s premier food snobs.

“Well, seeing as you’re so keen to be useful,” Sherlock said. “There are one or two things I think you  _can_  help me with.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. One involves arranging a temporary, secure mobile connection.”

Mycroft nodded in a manner that suggested it was something people requested from him several times a day.

“And the other?”

Sherlock sighed, looking to the heavens (or at least the ceiling) momentarily.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say these words,” he said. “And if you repeat them to anyone, I’m likely going to have to kill all parties involved, but…I need your help with my honeymoon arrangements.”

He couldn’t remember a time in recent memory when his brother looked quite so gleefully smug – but on this occasion, for this cause, Sherlock was prepared to take it.

Once he had explained more fully, Mycroft excused himself to make the necessary phone calls in the ground floor hallway. As he was exiting the flat, Mrs Hudson was on her way up, followed moments later by Lestrade. Sherlock found himself dispatched to the kitchen once again to make yet more tea, while Mrs Hudson installed herself between his parents, their conversation segueing between a baffling array of unrelated topics, including hip pain, engineering works on the District Line, and the injustice of no longer being able to speak to an actual person in the bank.

On spotting Lestrade, Sherlock noticed William crawling at high speed towards him, attempting to use the fabric of his trousers to haul himself up. He could see where this was going; William Holmes had spotted his mark.

“Up you come then, mate,” Lestrade said, affectionately, swinging his godson into his arms.

Almost straight away, William started fussing, leaning insistently towards the floor.

“You wanna go down again?” the detective queried, nonplussed.

Sherlock watched William executing his plan. As Lestrade lowered him towards the ground, William straightened his sturdy little legs so that he was effectively standing, both hands grasping his godfather’s coat sleeve. Bent double, Lestrade looked to Sherlock and Molly for an explanation. No explanation was required, because William then set off, using Lestrade as a walking aid.

“He saw you coming,” Sherlock smirked.

“Sorry, Greg,” Molly added, smiling sympathetically. “It’s his new favourite thing. We had to do it for nearly an hour this morning.”

“And ‘ere I was thinking ‘e was just ‘appy to see his favourite godfather,” Lestrade grimaced, obediently allowing himself to be led around the living room by William. “This isn’t gonna do my sciatica any good, by the way. ‘Ere, Will, can I at least take my coat off?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to try it,” Sherlock replied.

“He needs a little trolley to push around,” Mrs Hudson put in, watching William fondly.

“Not a bad idea, that,” Lestrade said, craning over his shoulder while still following William around. “He could get us all drinks while ‘e’s at it.”

Sherlock crossed the room to where Molly was sitting on her yellow chair; on spotting him, she beckoned him to squeeze onto it beside her. He slipped his arm around her waist and placed a kiss in her hair. Of course, he saw his mother watching him as though her heart was going to burst; she needed to pace herself, or she wouldn’t even make it past the vows without having to go for a lie-down.  

“I still have to pinch myself that this is happening,” his mother said, leaning across to squeeze Sherlock’s knee.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, looking with some disdain at the hand on his leg. “On that note, I suppose I’d better tell you where the venue is.”

His mother looked at him and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, you didn’t really go and change the venue just because of that silly business with the newspaper announcement?” she asked.

“Yes, we did,” he replied, patiently.

Wanda Holmes sighed.

“Well, is it a nice place?”

“No, Mother, I decided that we should exchange our lifelong vows in the public toilets at Victoria Station,” Sherlock replied. “It was either there or under Waterloo Bridge.”

That earned him an elbow in the ribs from Molly.

“It’s lovely,” Molly assured his mother. “It had been our back-up venue anyway, so we’d visited it before.”

Molly then proceeded to find a brochure that helped to placate his mother, and which was then passed around the rest of the room, including to Mycroft, who had re-entered from the hallway.

“We haven’t moved any further forward with food, then, I see?” Mycroft asked, pocketing his phone.

“I think we’re waiting for John,” their mother said, giving her older son the sort of exasperated look to which he had been immune for the better part of forty-five years. “What time is he due?

Sherlock saw Molly’s face colour a little. John had accepted their invitation by text, but had left early for the surgery that morning with Rosie, and neither Sherlock or Molly had spoken to him at length since Molly’s return from Sherrinford – not since he’d left their flat in anger a few days ago. Sherlock knew that Molly felt uncomfortable about that; the woman he loved wanted to mend everything and everybody, but that also meant she worried about things that she couldn’t control.

“He has to collect Rosie from the childminder first,” Sherlock said. “But don’t worry, John is like an urban fox; he can smell free food a mile off. We’re probably fortunate that he doesn’t knock over all the bins to get to it.”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, what  _exactly_  are you doing?”

The enquiry came from Mycroft, who had wrenched himself away from his phone long enough to notice the peculiar conga that Lestrade was performing with William.

“Don’t suppose you wanna take over?” Greg asked hopefully, rubbing the small of his back.

Mycroft smiled in a way that made it clear in no uncertain terms that the suggestion was preposterous.

“I think to think that the skills I have to offer my nephew lie in other areas,” he replied.

Apparently undeterred by his uncle’s reluctance, William started to make the shaky transition from holding onto Lestrade’s thumb to grasping the leg of Mycroft’s pinstripe trousers, and he stood there beaming up at him. Sherlock watched his brother force his face into a watery smile; his fondness for his nephew didn’t yet extend to jeopardizing the integrity of his Saville Row tailoring.

“Oh, look at him, Mycroft!” their mother said. “It’s no good waiting until he’s old enough to join you in your box at the opera – get down on the floor and play with him!”

“Down where and do what?” Mycroft repeated, aghast.

“You heard me,” their mother said. “What do you think your father and I used to do?”

“I absolutely dread to think,” Mycroft said, witheringly.

Sherlock didn’t have the chance to see how this played out, because Molly was gesturing for him to follow her into the kitchen. Once they were safely out of sight, Sherlock moved in close and gently trapped her against the countertop before moving in for a kiss. Molly squeaked against his mouth, prompting him to chuckle against hers, his hands moving to her hips.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” she whispered.

“This isn’t why you wanted me to come into the kitchen?” he queried, suppressing a smile.

“I thought we could start getting the food ready,” she replied, rolling her eyes. Sherlock noticed, though, that she hadn’t yet moved out of his embrace.

“I’m bored,” he told her. “And I actually think they’ll all get on perfectly well without us. Perhaps we could go next door and….practice being married?”

She smiled, her hands moving to grasp his biceps.

“Um, you’re forgetting that in our living room at the moment, we’ve got a Scotland Yard detective, an omniscient government whatever-your-brother-is, plus Mrs Hudson and your mum,” she told them. “ _One_  of them would notice we were missing.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but gratefully accepted Molly’s consolation kisses, his arms braced on the countertop to help cancel out the height difference. He felt hers wind around his neck, pulling him closer, and as Sherlock nipped at Molly’s bottom lip and heard her sigh in response, he was certain that she was now warming to the idea of abandoning their own party.

His thoughts were interrupted by a peal of greetings from the living room, and specifically, the sound of John’s voice. Molly pulled away from him, and they exchanged glances. Sherlock heard John ask Rosie to stay with Mrs Hudson for a moment, and then he appeared in the doorway to the entrance to the kitchen.

“Hi,” he said, looking between them. “Sorry, I got held up at the surgery. I, ah, I brought these.”

John held a bag out to Molly.

“We went by the cake place on the way,” he explained. “Rosie chose them. Hope everyone likes unicorns.”

There was a nervousness to his brief laugh.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” Molly replied, flipping open the cardboard box containing the cake. Sherlock glimpsed a collection of cupcakes that were very pink and very glittery. Ever since Rosie had come up to the flat wearing her fairy wings a few days earlier, Sherlock had been finding glitter in the strangest of places – glitter was apparently even worse than cat hair.

Sherlock saw Molly flick a glance in his direction.

“I’m going to go and say thank you to Rosie,” she told them.

Sherlock understood immediately, and he suspected from John’s reaction that he did, too. He started to take some plates out of the cupboard and arrange them on the counter top.

“Mycroft brought nibbles,” he said, by way of explanation.

“Wow,” John replied, puffing out his cheeks as he picked up one of the bags and examined the crest on the side. “Don’t they supply the Royal households?”

“Yes, but only after my brother has had first refusal,” Sherlock replied.

Silently, John started to help him unwrap the remaining packages and arrange the food on the odd mish-mash of serving plates that Sherlock had corralled from the cupboard. Molly had a weakness for random orphaned pieces of crockery she found on market stalls.

“Look, Sherlock…” John began. “I’m sorry I haven’t really been around for the past couple of days. Work’s been manic, and all the Best Man stuff, too…I should have come to see you both after you got back. I just…”

Sherlock glanced across at his friend.

“…it brought up a lot of stuff for me again, that’s all.” John continued. “Things I thought I’d dealt with. I mean, you know I had…problems after Sherrinford – flashbacks, nightmares, the standard PTSD stuff. I know you did, too, but…well, you had other things going on. Your life was changing – you were dealing with your family, but then you had Molly, and then suddenly you were having a baby, and I guess I…I didn’t have those new things to cling on to.”

He closed his eyes, rubbing his fingers across the bridge of his nose.

“All I knew was that I had to keep things going for Rosie,” he said. “Head down, steady the ship. I…I dunno if I could have done that if I’d actually let myself dwell on everything that happened that day.”

“Look, I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” John said. “I need to apologise to Molly, too. I just…after everything that’s happened, I just can’t face the thought of anything bad happening to either of you. You’ve got this amazing thing, Sherlock, this second chance that I would give anything for, and-”

“You don’t want me to take it for granted,” Sherlock interjected, nodding. “I know. And I don’t. Just ask Molly – she can tell you what it did to me to let her go.”

John nodded, swallowing.

“I think I knew, too, that Mary would have done exactly the same thing, and there was nothing I could have done to stop  _her_  either,” he said, his jaw clenching. “I guess at some point in my life not everything will be about Mary.”

Sherlock felt a sharp crack in his chest, and without engaging his brain any further, he pulled John into a hug. He heard John’s laugh of surprise, but then felt his friend’s hand pat his back a couple of times, a gesture of gratitude. John pulled away, clearing his throat.

“I, ah…I think I’m ready to be your Best Man now,” he said, blinking hard at the tears that Sherlock knew he wanted to keep at bay.

“Good,” Sherlock replied. “You can start by doing something with this ridiculous excuse for crisps that my brother has brought. There seems to be kelp in there.”

He handed him the packet and a bowl.

“Makes a change from Rosie’s Pom-Bears,” John shrugged, taking the packet. “Hang on, is this a kidney dish?”

“It would look that way, yes,” Sherlock replied, cagily. “Must have got mixed in with the kitchen things.”

He saw John open his mouth to say something else, but change his mind. Instead, he just shook his head and laughed – and there was clearly something infectious in it, because Sherlock found himself laughing, too.

000000000000

Half an hour later, and the kitchen counter was a scene of devastation, with nothing remaining except for a few loose scraps of delicate pastry and the dusty remains of the pretentious seaweed crisps. Sherlock was stretched out in the corner of the sofa, pinned down by the weight of William sleeping across his torso, while Molly sat beside him, their hands entwined and resting on his knee. He could tell that she was tired, too, but it was a serene exhaustion, not unlike how he was feeling.

Rosie had engaged both Lestrade and his father in a complicated game involving plastic ponies, and Mrs Hudson and his mother were exchanging wedding anecdotes as though they were war stories. Mycroft was recovering from the trauma of being forced to entertain his nephew with the help of a stiff whiskey.

“So, Sherlock,” his mother said, turning to him. “Where will you be staying the night before the wedding?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

“Where I always stay. Here.”

Apparently, that was not the right answer.

“Oh Sherlock, you can’t do that!” Mrs Hudson cried. “It’s bad luck.”

_What might be considered bad luck is discovering that you’ve married a drugs baron_ , Sherlock thought, but – surprising himself with his self-restraint – didn’t say.

“Martha is right, Sherlock,” his mother put in. “It’s not traditional.”

Oh, for pity’s sake. He was going to have to have  _this_  conversation, and what’s more, he would have to argue his case while a baby used him as a mattress.

“In case it’s escaped your notice, Mother,” he began. “Ours is not an arranged marriage. We  _have_  met before. Molly and I have known each other for nearly ten years, we have been sharing a bedroom for nearly two of those years – and as a result, we have actually produced another human being.”

“You can kip on my sofa, if you like.”

Sherlock’s head whirled around to face the source of this treachery. John raised his whiskey glass and waggled his eyebrows.

“There you go, darling,” his mother said to him, gesturing to John. “The perfect solution. That way you’ll be close at hand, but you can still avoid each other before the wedding. Besides, Molly doesn’t want you in her way while she’s getting ready.”

Sherlock sighed.

“I’m perfectly adept at staying out of the way.”

“Not really, Sherlock,” put in Mrs Hudson.  _She_  was already being fast-tracked to a table by the loos.

Sherlock felt Molly squeeze his hand, and bury her nose in his shoulder to prevent any laughter from escaping.

“But what about Will?” Sherlock said, gesturing to his comatose son. “He’s coming with John and I to the venue – how’s that going to work?”

“I’ll fetch him from Molly in the morning,” John said, grinning. “I’ll be going upstairs anyway to drop off Rosie with the girls.”

“Wonderful how things just work themselves out sometimes, isn’t it?” Mycroft said. “Almost enough to make once believe in some benevolent cosmic force.”

Sherlock bit down hard on a riposte; the only force around there was his mother, and he would hardly consider her benevolent most of the time. He was aware, too, that some of his wedding plans were reliant on Mycroft’s co-operation, so the gloves would have to stay on for now.  

“I think we should have a toast,” his father said, hauling himself off the floor where he’d been playing with Rosie.

“Toast?” said Rosie, looking up, hopefully.

“Not that kind of toast, Rosie,” Molly whispered. “I’ll get you some of that later, if you like.”

Between them, John and Mycroft did the honours, coming back from the kitchen with the Cristal and an impressive assortment of un-matching glasses (none of which was a champagne flute). When everyone was served, John remained standing; he caught Sherlock’s eye, and held out his glass.

“I’m saving my best material for three days’ time,” he said. “So this’ll be brief. Two years ago, this would have seemed the most improbable thing. But if I’ve learnt one thing from my time with Sherlock Holmes, it’s that there’s a big difference between the impossible and the improbable. This wedding – Sherlock and Molly – this wedding is proof that there are still good forces at work in the world. Your relationship, and the friendship and love you’ve both shown to me and my daughter, have given me hope through difficult times. Now, I don’t have a great track record with family, but I consider _you_ my family – and you, too, Mrs H – and there’s nowhere I’d rather call home.”

Sherlock glanced down at Molly, who was dabbing at her cheeks with her sleeve. He kissed the side of her head, felt her fingers tighten around his.

“Sherlock,” John continued, smiling. “You’re still a git. Absolutely  _the_  most infuriating person I have ever met. But you have earned this happiness, and nobody deserves it more. Molls - I can't begin to describe how patient you are. But you always saw something in this bloke that the rest of us didn't, something that was worth being patient for. I'm so pleased that you were right, and that you waited."

Sherlock heard a murmur of agreement from his parents, words that reverberated in his own head, too.

"Anyway," John said, bending to hoist Rosie onto his hip. "That wait is almost over. So before I say too much and end up plagiarising my own Best Man speech, let's have this toast: to Molly and Sherlock, and things that are worth waiting for."

As his friends and family echoed the sentiment and held their glasses aloft, Sherlock turned as best he could to face Molly, all the while feeling William’s regular puffs of breath against his clavicle. She grinned at him, her eyes alight, and he realised there was no point in trying to hide his own happiness. Brushing away the tears from her cheeks with his thumb, Sherlock brought his lips to Molly's. 

They were nearly there.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Calamari is real - look him up, he's ace!
> 
> And for anyone reading outside of the UK, Pom-Bears are strange, melt-in-the-mouth teddy-shaped crisps, beloved of pretty much all small children (and me, to be fair)!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the best laid plans very quickly start to unravel...

John slapped at his alarm clock, fumbling for the snooze button, but it didn’t seem to make any difference - the insistent buzzing noise was still there. He edged across the bed awkwardly, blearily forcing open one eye, and realised then that the noise was coming from his phone. It was on silent, but vibrating so much that it was performing a tarantella on his bedside table.

Then he panicked -  _shit, was it the day of the wedding and he’d slept in? Why hadn’t Rosie given him his usual early-morning wake-up call?_ But then his brain kicked up a gear and he remembered that they still had a day.

John forced his open eye to focus on the digital readout on the clock - 06:24. Who the hell was trying to ring him at this time? Even when the surgery called to ask him to cover a shift, they didn’t ring this early. But just as he reached for the phone to find out, it stopped. He lay there for a second, his hand still outstretched, debating whether to check the missed call - but then decided against it.  _Sod it, if it’s important, they’ll leave a message or ring back._

He collapsed back on the pillow again, but must have been lying there less than ten seconds before the phone started vibrating again. Grunting a few oaths under his breath, John lunged for the phone just before it threatened to dance straight off the edge of the bedside table. Too tired to bother the reading the name on the screen, he hit the answer button.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

After all, who else would it be? The fact that he only lived two flights of stairs away would be no deterrent. Sherlock had probably been awake all night, too wired about the wedding; John would probably go upstairs later to discover that he’d completely reconfigured the seating plan (again), or had covered the living room in napkin origami.

“John, it’s Greg,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “I’m guessin’ I probably woke you?”

“Ah, yeah, you guessed right,” John replied, digging his forefinger and thumb into the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry, mate, I’ve just come off the night shift,” Greg said. Wherever he was, he was outside, surrounded by the sound of busy, early morning traffic. “I didn’t wanna just knock on the door in case I woke everyone else.”

John sat up in the twisted sheets.

“You’re outside? Right now?”

_Oh_ , this didn’t sound good.

“Yeah. Almost at Speedy’s now. Can I come in?”

John swung his legs out of bed, already looking around for his dressing gown.

“Has something happened, Greg?” he asked, snagging the dressing gown from where he’d abandoned it on the back of the chair.

“More like it’s about to,” the detective replied. “I came over as soon as I heard.”

John felt a spike of adrenaline begin to flood his brain, his heartrate immediately reacting in kind.

“Be there in a minute,” he said, heading for the front door.

 

0000000

 

The two men sat in opposite chairs in almost symmetrical poses, elbows on knees, faces in hands. John was still trying to process the news, wishing now that a very strong, very hot coffee would magically materialise in front of him. (He had noticed that Mrs Hudson’s tea service had never extended to 221C, and tried not to be offended by it.)

“When’s it all happening?” John asked. They were talking in whispers, Rosie still asleep in her bedroom off the living room.

“Later this morning,” Greg replied, with a slightly apologetic grimace. “I shouldn’t even be telling you; the Chief Inspector would do his nut if he knew. But I couldn’t, you know, not say anything - not with everything planned as it is.”

John sighed, and let out a strangled laugh.

“He really is his own worst enemy,” he said. “I mean, there’d be something quite poetic about this if it wasn’t so bloody disastrous.”

Greg nodded, working at the stubble on his jaw with his fingers.

“The timing couldn’t be worse,” he acknowledged. “But that’s just the way it’s ‘appened. There are over eighty officers involved, multiple locations all over London; it’s a big operation - it’ll be all over the papers in the morning,”

John dragged his hands through his hair, and let out a long exhale.

“Okay. Well, we’re going to have to tell them,” he sighed. “Better do it sooner rather than later, to give us any chance of actually salvaging something from it.”

He was going to have to ask Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on Rosie; better that than waking her up and then trying to have a serious conversation while a groggy toddler grizzled and demanded breakfast.

“How d’ya think they’re gonna take it?” Greg asked, grimly.

John snorted, nodding towards the clock on the living room wall.

“With twenty-eight hours until they’re supposed to be getting married?” he said. “And with Sherlock as tightly wound as he is about the wedding? I think you should have brought a riot shield, and be grateful that he isn’t allowed to keep loaded firearms in the living room anymore.”

Greg winced, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, “And that’s why came to see you first - I thought  _you_  could be my riot shield.”

John looked up at him, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, thanks very much.”

“Well, you’re ‘is Best Man,” Greg insisted. “And it’ll sound better coming from you. Always does.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” John sighed. “But I get the feeling that the only consolation for Sherlock will be that he has not just one but two messengers to shoot.”

“Molls’ll talk him down, won’t she?” Greg said, unconvincingly. “She’s not going to turn into one of those - what d’you call it? - Bridezillas.”

That certainly didn’t sound like Molly Hooper, but this wasn’t exactly a typical situation. This day was  _supposed_  to be easy; busy, yes, but mostly just finalising, double-checking, and running errands to collect a few things. John was starting to get a headache just thinking about the Herculean challenge ahead of them now.

“Shall we get this over with?” Greg asked, cautiously.

John closed his eyes for a second and nodded.

“I’m, ah, I’m just going to put some trousers on,” he said, starting to get up. “You know, just in case I have to make a run for it.”

000000000

 

“John, Greg, what are you doing here?” Molly asked, with a confused smile. “Sorry - did we arrange something?”

At least they weren’t asleep, John thought, thankful for small mercies. Molly was carrying a half-empty bottle of baby milk, and had what looked like a tiny pair of plaid pyjamas draped over her arm. The latter made sense when John caught sight of Sherlock, who was being led around the room at quite a pace by a nappy-clad William. Like father, like son, John thought - at least William had some pants on.

“I’m not stopping, Molls,” Greg said (somewhat treacherously, John thought). “I’ve been on nights and I’ve gotta get my ‘ead down, but...er...can we have a word?”

“I’m getting married tomorrow, Lestrade!” Sherlock called from across the living room. “No cases today - not even nines. If you’ve got any nines, just keep them to yourself.”

“Nah, nah, it’s, ah...it’s not about that,” Greg replied.

John watch as Sherlock hoisted William up by his stubby arms and balanced him on his hip. They both had the same unkempt morning-curls. Sherlock was still dressed in his pyjamas and red dressing gown, a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw (John knew he was having a haircut and wet shave at Mycroft’s barber that afternoon - or at least that  _was_  the plan).

“What’s going on? Is everyone okay?” Molly asked, and John saw her smile fade and be replaced by an expression of trepidation.

By now, Sherlock was at her shoulder, holding tightly to William while their son tried to turn himself upside-down.

“One of you spit it out,” Sherlock demanded.

“Okay,” John agreed. “But put William down first.”

He knew what Sherlock could be like when on the receiving end of shocking news, and the last thing they needed on top of everything else was a concussed baby.

“You remember a case you helped me with a couple of months back?” Greg began. “Deliberate hit and run; bloke on his way to his wedding.”

“Yeesss,” Sherlock replied, his tone wary. John could see that he was trying to second-guess where this was going. “What about it?”

“Well, turns out you were right,” Greg continued. “About all of it. It  _was_  a sham marriage operation - but it was far more widespread than the initial enquiries suggested. We’re talking hundreds of fake weddings, dozens of people involved - and up and down the country, too, although the majority of them were being orchestrated by individuals in London. Turns out it’s a huge deal; not just fraud being committed, but cracking this case has helped to open up new leads in people-trafficking investigations, too.”

“That sounds...really great,” Molly said, uncertainly, looking between Sherlock on one side, and John and Greg on the other.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Greg replied. “Great news for the Met, and for the victims - but what I’m trying to say is...what am I trying to say? Jesus, I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-hours.”

“Sherlock, Molly,” John said, taking a deep breath. “At nine o’clock this morning, a team of armed officers are going to be raiding your wedding venue. And not just your wedding venue, but several others in the Greater London area - including, Sherlock, the one you insisted that we have as a Plan B. Oh, and the celebrant is on the list of those the police are looking to arrest. So, to cut a long story short, you have no wedding venue for tomorrow, and even if you had a venue, you now have nobody to perform the ceremony.”

God, it sounded even worse out loud. Perhaps he should have tried to come up with some practical suggestions first, so at least he had something to offer? Still, it had been enough to try not to convey his own creeping panic.

Molly reacted first.

“Oh...God,” she managed, her eyes widening as John’s words sunk in.

“Look, there are probably things we can do,” John said quickly, hoping that he wouldn’t immediately be challenged to come up with something. “We just need to try and think clearly, see what our options are, maybe wait to hear...Sherlock?”

In the middle of speaking, he’d noticed his friend. Sherlock was standing there, staring straight at him; his fixed expression was almost quizzical, with eyebrows slightly furrowed. His eyes fluttered rapidly.

Oh God.

“Sherlock? Mate?”

Yup. He was buffering.

Molly turned to face Sherlock, her expression turning to one of mild alarm; in more than eighteen months together, John was guessing that she hadn’t yet experienced this particular quirk of her fiancé’s. She leaned in front of his face, attempting to interrupt his stunned reverie.

“Is ‘e okay?” Greg asked, warily.

“Give him a minute,” John sighed.

“Sherlock?” Molly said, reaching a hand up to cup his jaw. “Sherlock, do you feel okay? W-why are you staring like that?”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted towards her, but his countenance was still glazed.

“Seriously, what’s goin’ on?” Greg whispered to John, who shook his head to indicate that it wasn’t something he could easily explain.

“Sherlock, come on,” Molly continued, now holding both sides of his face in her hands. “Sherlock, listen to me. We’ve got kind of a serious situation here. If you want us to get married tomorrow - if there’s going to be any chance of that happening - you’re going to have to focus. I need you to snap out of this; to put that big, brilliant brain of yours into action and help us solve this. Sorry to have to say it, but I think Greg has brought you a nine after all.”

There was a long moment when they all seemed to be in a state of suspended animation, even William, who stared up, open-mouthed, at the adults gathered around him.

Then, almost as instantly as the buffering started, Sherlock’s entire demeanour switched again. Blinking, as though coming around from a faint, his eyes then locked with Molly’s and - to her obvious surprise - he held her by the arms and kissed her quickly and passionately. When he released her, he and Molly stared at each other for a moment, a quirk of a smile on Sherlock’s lips; like any couple, John realised, they had their own non-verbal cues and shortcuts for communicating.

Sherlock suddenly swung around to face John and Greg.

“Lestrade, go home,” he said firmly. “The last thing we need is a Scotland Yard detective passing out on our living room carpet – the drool stains alone would upset Mrs Hudson.”

Greg nodded, yawning involuntarily.

  
“Gimme a few hours an’ I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again,” he said, before virtually stumbling out of the flat.

Then, Sherlock crouched down to scoop up William, before turning to address Molly.

“Molly, there is no blundering parent nor criminal gang in the country that is going to prevent me from marrying you tomorrow,” he said, fixing his gaze on her. “I will fix this.”

John sighed.

“Yeah, it’s a nice sentiment, Sherlock, but it’s not like any venues are going to have vacancies at a day’s notice.”

Molly shrugged.

“We won’t know until we try,” she said simply, wiggling William’s dangling foot and making him giggle.

Sherlock looked at Molly with a mixture of pride, admiration and boyish affection, before turning to John.

“You’re forgetting, John, that my fiancée and I planned an elaborate fake suicide, taking into account multiple variables and myriad outcomes, in the space of less than a day,” he said. “Somewhere in London is a venue licensed for weddings and an individual licensed to officiate at them, and I will consider it a personal failing if I am unable to locate both within the next twelve hours.”

John looked at his friend, and at the determination on his face that was usually reserved for pitting himself against London’s most nefarious criminals. This situation was no different – Sherlock needed his help.

“I will, too,” John replied, feeling his mouth pull into a smile.

Sherlock smiled in return; the challenge had been accepted, the game was on.

Molly stood on tiptoes, sliding her fingers into Sherlock’s hair and placing a quick kiss on his cheek before lifting William out of his arms and into her own.

“Okay, well, places will start to open in an hour,” she said. “John, why don’t you get dressed and bring Rosie up here? I’ll make some breakfast for her and Will.”

“Bring the wedding file, too,” Sherlock added, referring to the huge, overstuffed binder that John had been put in charge of in his capacity as Best Man. “And the rest of that good coffee Harry gave you for your birthday. We’re going to need it.”

“I haven’t even tried that yet,” John said, frowning.

“You should,” Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly. “It’s very good indeed.”

John opened his mouth to start protesting against the unauthorised intrusion into his kitchen and the pilfering of his comestibles, but what would be the point? And on this day, there were, he conceded, bigger things at stake than the contents of his kitchen cupboards. What kind of Best Man was he if he couldn’t even fulfil the basic requirement of getting the bride and groom to the altar?

He took a deep breath, centred himself, just as his therapist encouraged him to.

“Be back in fifteen minutes,” he told them, turning towards the door.

“Take twenty-five,” Sherlock called after him. “We need milk.”

_Git_.

 

00000000000

Two hours later, and the living room of 221B was festooned with the contents of the wedding file, pages of which had been passed around, cast aside and frequently crumpled up in frustration as Sherlock, Molly and John made phone call after phone call. Mrs Hudson had come up to lend a hand, switching between keeping an eye on the children and joining in with the telephone enquiries (although she didn’t much like Sherlock’s suggestion that she try her ‘helpless old lady’ voice).

“That was the last one on my list,” John sighed, setting down his phone. “Although the woman did suggest a place run by a friend of hers – if you fancy getting married in Carlisle at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“You might as well keep going straight to Gretna,” Mrs Hudson said.

“Yes, just checking the sleeper train now,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes scanning the screen of his laptop.

John looked up in time to see Molly elbow him in the ribs.

“Sherlock! We absolutely can’t do that,” she said. “Think of your mum and dad!”

“I  _am_  thinking of them, Molly,” he replied. “I am thinking of them wishing us well from three hundred miles away.”

“Well, don’t expect me to keep your secret,” Mrs Hudson tutted, as she helped Rosie to roll out some Play-Doh.

“You won’t get the chance, Hudders,” Sherlock said. “You’ll be coming with us. We’ll need a second witness and it’s either you or whichever cretinous, Tartan-clad tourist we can abduct from the streets of Gretna.”

“Oh, so I’m coming along on this clandestine operation, too?” John asked. The thought of packing everything up, dashing halfway across London to King’s Cross and then sharing a bunk on the sleeper with Rosie was not what he had envisaged – although, in the pantheon of crazy things that Sherlock had asked him to do over the years, it frankly wouldn’t even graze the top ten.

“Nobody is going to Scotland,” Molly said firmly, getting down onto the play mat next to William. “We’re just going to have to ring the venue and ask when they next have a vacancy. Put things on hold until then.”

“Well, the staff might get off with suspended sentences,” Sherlock said. “But I’d rather not wait until the celebrant has served his four to five years in prison.”

They were getting irritable with each other, but it wasn’t hard to see why. Molly was trying to hide the fact that she was clearly heartbroken, in an attempt to spare Sherlock’s feelings, and Sherlock was punishing himself for what he saw as letting Molly down.

Suddenly it occurred to John that they might be overlooking the obvious.

“Don’t we already have a venue?” he said. “The first venue, the one where this ridiculous decoy wedding is taking place? Can’t we just revert to that?”

Sherlock gave him a dark look – one of those looks that suggested, once again, that John was operating on the same intellectual plane as an especially slow-witted sea slug.

“I had an update from Wiggins half an hour ago,” he said. “He says there are already at least a dozen journalists camped out outside the venue – including a television crew – and others have checked into accommodation nearby in preparation for tomorrow. The decoy has to go ahead as planned.”

“Well, that’s all very well, dear,” Mrs Hudson put in, pausing to admire Rosie’s latest creation. “But what exactly will you be trying to distract people from?”

It was a fair point, even if it did earn Mrs Hudson a particularly scathing stare from Sherlock.

“Wait a minute,” Molly said suddenly. “Mike!”

Everyone looked at her, including Sherlock, who didn’t seem to understand this outburst any better than John.

“Mike!” Molly repeated, getting to her feet. “Mike Stamford can do the wedding!” 

Oh, Molly Hooper was brilliant, John had to give her that.

“Of course!” he said. “Why didn’t we think of that earlier? Molly’s right - Mike is a licensed celebrant.”

Sherlock now looked arguably even more confused.

“I’d assumed he was some manner of doctor,” he said, screwing up his face. “What with working in the hospital and apparently having trained with you. Or are you actually not a doctor either?”

“’Course Mike’s a doctor, you twa..twit,” John said, catching Mrs Hudson’s eye at the last second. “But he qualified as a celebrant, too – did his niece’s wedding last year.”

“So….Stamford can marry us?” Sherlock said, frowning. Apparently, this was even harder to fathom than the behaviours of the solar system.

“Yes!” Molly said, beaming. “He’s coming to the wedding anyway, and I’m sure he’ll do it when he realises what’s happened. We just have to find somewhere it can legally take place.”

She reached up to grab Sherlock by the back of the neck, and pull him down for a quick kiss. John heard Molly squeak as Sherlock lifted her into his arms unexpectedly, as she locked her legs around his waist to keep herself from falling.

“Kissy-kissy again!” Rosie announced triumphantly from her seat at the table.

“Yeah, Rosie,” John said, before clearing his throat and addressing his friends at an amplified volume. “Bit too much kissy-kissy, actually, considering the amount of work we’ve still got to do.”

Sherlock set Molly down, but there was a definite change in both of their countenances.

“Calm down, John,” Sherlock said, with a self-satisfied smile. “Everything else is extremely simple.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” John asked, folding his arms and waiting to be enlightened.

“He’s doing that thing again,” Mrs Hudson put in, barely looking up from the Play-Doh biscuits she and Rosie were making. “Where he’s waiting to show us all how clever he is.”

But instead of explaining further, Sherlock turned back to Molly.

“Molly, do you trust me?” he asked.

She looked up at him enquiringly, biting her lip.

“Yes,” she replied, finally. “Completely. Always.”

“Then call Stamford,” he told her. “Tell him to await further instruction from John or me, and if there’s anything he needs, text me.”

Sherlock buttoned his jacket and started to head towards the front door.

“Um, okay,” Molly replied hesitantly. “But where are you going?”

“Er, yeah, where  _are_  we going?” John asked, watching Sherlock reappear from the hallway with his coat.

“To inspect the new wedding venue,” Sherlock replied, as though it was obvious. “And - although it pains me to say it - to beg a favour of my brother. This is one of those occasions where being closely related to the British government will hopefully prove an advantage.”  

John watched as Sherlock bent down and lifted William into his arms.

“You’re coming, too, young man,” he said, raising an eyebrow at his son. “You never know when we might need a charm offensive. Even your Uncle Mycroft couldn’t say no to that face.”

“You’re okay to look after Rosie?” John asked Molly, as she helped Sherlock wrestle their son into his coat and then handed him the BabyBjorn carrier.  

“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” Molly replied, kissing the top of Rosie’s head. “Which one of you is taking this?”

She held out William’s changing bag. John and Sherlock exchanged glances before John resignedly took the brightly-coloured bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder (there was absolutely zero chance that they wouldn’t be mistaken for a couple at numerous points during the day). Molly kissed the Holmes men goodbye as they hustled towards the door, pausing to pull a striped woolly hat over William’s curls. She then gently caught hold of John’s arm before he could follow them.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, too.

John smiled, feeling the thrill of anticipation for the day ahead start to build.

“Any time, Molls,” he replied. Given everything that Molly Hooper had done for himself and Rosie over the past two years, John would have struggled to refuse her anything. “We’ll get you two hitched tomorrow, one way or another.”

Molly smiled, but as she opened her mouth to reply, her fiancé’s voice boomed from halfway down the stairs.

“No time for dawdling, John! The game is on!”

000000000000

 John came back into the living room and piled the spare duvet and pillow onto the armchair. He was about to make some sort of half-hearted apology for already being in his pyjamas when he realised it wasn’t necessary – Sherlock was wearing his, too. His clothes were neatly folded on the dining chair he was using as a bedside table, and he was poring over an arrangement of papers laid out on the coffee table. Behind him, hung from the mirror frame side-by-side, were two identical, made-to-measure grey-blue suits – one regular size, one tiny. The rest of William’s things for the wedding were in a bag by the door.

“Did Rosie go down okay?” Sherlock mumbled, not looking up.

“Yeah, eventually,” John replied. “Bit too excited about you staying over.”

Sherlock had volunteered to occupy Rosie after dinner, building a furniture den and reading to her while John made the last frantic phone calls. He had even given her a bath, and from Rosie’s delighted shrieks – and noises that sounded as though someone was wrestling a kraken – Sherlock’s bath-times were a lot more entertaining and a lot less let’s-just-get-through-this than John’s.

Sherlock sat back against the sofa cushions, his eyes skittering over the papers on the coffee table – revised versions of everything.

“Do…do you think she’ll like it?”

After the adrenaline of the day, despite all of Sherlock’s bluster and confidence, and despite successfully rescuing his wedding day, he was clearly having a moment of uncertainty.

“Mate, Molly will love it,” John replied, perching on the arm of the chair. “It’s a bit…different – maybe not everyone’s cup of tea – but it’s very…you. Both of you. And for God’s sake, Sherlock, we just planned an entire wedding in less than a day – we have to give ourselves some credit. Do you want a beer?”

Sherlock glanced up and shook his head.

“Got any whiskey?”

John tilted his head to one side.

“Yeah. But I’m sure you know that already.”

When Sherlock realised John wasn’t about to bite his head off for rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, he smiled: guilty as charged. John fetched two tumblers and a bottle of Glenfiddich from the kitchen and set them down. Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away from the plans on the table.

“It’s done, Sherlock, it’s sorted,” John told him, pouring them both a modest drink. “We’ve got the venue; Mycroft is arranging the temporary license; Mike knows what the plan is; we’ve changed the arrangements for the flowers, photographer and cars; the cake place is bringing the cake directly to Angelo’s, and between us we’ve rung every single guest on that list to let them know where to go to in the morning. You _are_ getting married tomorrow.”

Sherlock picked up his glass and took a slow sip, a strangely meditative expression on his face.

“Yes,” he said. “I am, aren’t I?”

He set the glass down again.

“Did you feel like this?” Sherlock asked, his brows furrowing. “The night before?”

John cradled the whiskey glass in his hand, studying his friend’s face for a moment. He recognized every single flicker of emotion.

“Yeah, completely,” he replied. “And you should commit it to that Mind Palace of yours, because I don’t think there’s any feeling like it.”

Sherlock nodded, taking this on board.

“I can’t stop thinking about her, John,” he said, after a moment. “It almost…despite everything…it almost doesn’t seem possible.”

“I know,” John said quietly. “Pretty sure Molly feels the same.”

Sherlock reached over to the dining chair and slid his hand under the fabric of his folded clothes, retrieving a black velvet box. He held it out to John.

“Now that it’s all definitely happening, you’d better have these,” he said.

“The rings?” John said, almost gagging on his drink. “But I’ve had them for a couple of weeks…haven’t I?”

At his confusion, Sherlock looked a little abashed, the tips of his ears flushing pink.

“I…I decided I wanted to have them engraved,” he said. “Sorry. I probably should have just asked you; it actually would have saved me rifling through your pants drawer.”

“Er…yeah,” John said, bringing his glass to his lips again. He was caught between the sweetness of the gesture and the mild horror of another man perusing his underwear selection.

Sherlock knocked back the rest of his drink and stood up, retying his dressing gown cord.

“I’m going up to say goodnight,” he said, nodding in the direction of upstairs.

John frowned.

“I thought you’d done that already?”

He had stood at the bottom of the stairs with Rosie an hour ago, waiting while William was handed over, and Sherlock and Molly supposedly their goodbyes before the wedding. Even Rosie was tiring of the ‘kissy-kissy’ by the time John was finally able to cajole Sherlock back to 221C.

“I…ah…forgot to tell Molly something vital,” Sherlock replied, his eyes flicking from side to side. “About the honeymoon.”

John smirked; these days, Sherlock was completely transparent when it came to matters of the heart.

“You could text her,” he suggested, casually.

“I _could_ , but…”

“Go ahead,” John said, shaking his head. “But I’m warning you, mate – any longer than ten minutes and I’ll set Mrs Hudson on you. She’s probably keeping watch right now from the peephole in the front door.”

Sherlock grimaced slightly.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” he replied.

John watched as Sherlock quietly slipped out the front door to his flat; moments later, he heard his friend’s footsteps ascending the stairs. Finishing his drink, John went over to the desk and flipped open the lid of his laptop to where his speech was saved, the culmination of several weeks of inspiration, despair and revisions.

Sitting down in front of it for the final time, he took a deep breath, smiled, and hit print.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken so long to get this chapter up - real life, and all that kind of stuff. Hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> Now just the small matter of a wedding to write... :-)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One word: wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's been reading from the start probably feared I’d never get there, but I finally did. Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos so far – I really hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> It’s another longish read, but it was soooo difficult to leave things out. (Although this chapter did contain two of the subjects that I know least about in the world – dresses and classical music. Only need to add maths and I’d have had a full set!)
> 
> Word of warning – if you have a fluff aversion, best step away now…

Molly was still in the bedroom when Mrs Hudson called out that the transport had arrived; she peered out of the window and smiled to see one of Sherlock’s beloved black cabs, decked out in traditional wedding car ribbons. It had actually been her suggestion; loads of space in the back for three adults, a toddler car-seat and several bags – plus, black cabs could use bus lanes, so there was less chance of getting stuck in a traffic snarl-up.

“Molls, you ready?” Meena called, knocking softly at the door.

The morning had started oddly peacefully. She had woken even before William and made herself a cup of tea and some toast before bringing him into bed with her for his morning feed. It was strange to think that 221B Baker Street was about to become a marital home. Of course, Molly rationalised, for all intents and purposes it had been a marital home for well over a year now, but from today it would be a legally-recognised fact. Similarly, she had reminded herself many times that she and Sherlock were as good as husband and wife (even before he proposed), but it hadn’t stopped her wondering whether the events of this day might make it feel just a tiny bit different.  

Not long until she found out.

The pace of the day really started to increase when John came upstairs at seven o’clock to hand over a still-half-asleep Rosie and exchange her for a very-wide-awake William. Molly had felt her heart start to race at that point, and she felt a reckless impulse to race downstairs and see Sherlock one more time. He had come back up to the flat unexpectedly the night before, and had taken some convincing to leave - and once he was pressing her down into the sofa cushions and tracing a purposeful path of tiny kisses up the side of her neck, Molly struggled to remember why it was so important for him to go in the first place. It was a huge waste of a perfectly good erection, she’d give him that.

Anyway, probably a good thing that Mrs Hudson chose that moment to emerge from her own flat and make her way upstairs – the older woman’s excitement and exuberance was enough to distract Molly from wayward thoughts (and if that hadn’t worked, their landlady probably would have just rugby-tackled her on the stairs).

“Be out in a minute!” Molly replied.

She responded to Meena’s subsequent offer of help, telling her she was managing fine – which she was, but she also just wanted these final moments to herself. She could still remember the very first time she’d slept in this room, and what it had meant to her. Only a few hours prior to that, she had stood in the living room – in the grip of both anguish and hope – and told Sherlock that she was pregnant. Even despite his reaction that day, Molly would never have believed that she would one day be zipping herself into a wedding dress in what was now just as much her bedroom as his.

From the living room, she could hear the muffled sounds of Mrs Hudson talking to Rosie, and Rosie sounding decidedly irritable. Her goddaughter had been upset by the women’s efforts to keep her in her pyjamas until the last minute in an attempt to preserve her dress; she should probably get out there and mediate.

Molly moved in front of the full-length mirror one more time. She had been determined that on her wedding day more than any other, she wanted to feel like – to recognize – herself. A big, traditional wedding dress was never going to fit the bill, and after a day spent dragging Meena around vintage shops and independent boutiques, she had found what she was looking for – a sleeveless, sheer lace, A-line tea dress, with a narrow satin bow belt. It had needed a few small alterations, but as soon as she tried it on it felt right and when she looked at her reflection in the changing room mirror, she was grinning like an idiot. After hunting around online, she’d also found a beautiful shrug in delicate merino wool, which matched the dress perfectly – and well, it was a September wedding, so the weather could go either way.

Meena had taken charge of her make-up (Molly accepted it needed a bit more than her quick-and-practical Boots foundation and blusher combination), and her hair was pinned up to one side and held in place with some 1940s floral-design grips that she’d found in the jewellery box passed down by her grandmother. Any attempt Molly made to accessorize was usually sabotaged by William’s inquisitive hands (no necklace or bracelet was ever safe), but she only needed to make it through the ceremony and then he could do his worst.

“Come on Rosie, love, we’ve got to go in a few minutes or we’ll be late,” came Mrs Hudson’s slightly exasperated tone. “You can’t really go to Aunty Molly and Uncle Sherlock’s wedding dressed like that.”

Molly opened the door of the bedroom to find the older woman perched on the edge of the sofa, while Rosie stood proudly in the middle of the living room in only her pants and Molly’s pink and black striped scarf.

“What’s the matter, Rosie?” Molly asked.

At the sound of her voice, all three other people looked up, and Molly was faced with an array of open mouths – even Rosie seemed to be wondering who this was and what had happened to her godmother.

“Oh, Molls, you look amazing!” Meena said, breathily, coming towards her and taking her by the hands. “Look at you!”

Molly felt herself blush, but this wasn’t a moment to be self-deprecating – she knew it was true, and she was going to allow herself to enjoy it.

“Absolutely beautiful, dear!” Mrs Hudson added, a hand to her chest. “For once, I think that young man of yours might actually be lost for words.”

Molly smiled; in fact, at the sight of Rosie’s attire, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Rosie, that is a really lovely outfit you’ve got there,” she began. “But I thought you wanted to wear your dress? I reckon it’s even nicer than mine.”

Rosie frowned and pointed a finger directly at Molly.

“Oh, Rosie, Aunty Molly is all dressed up,” Mrs Hudson said. “Why don’t you let Aunty Martha or Meena help you?”

“It’s fine,” Molly smiled, picking up Rosie’s white and pink, rose-covered dress. She wanted to do this, and it was no mystery as to why – Mary had been on her mind since the moment she woke up that morning.

“Need a wee-wee,” Rosie announced.

“Good idea before you put on your dress,” Molly grinned. “I did the same thing.”

“Are you sure, Molly?” Mrs Hudson said, frowning uncertainly.

“Honestly, it’s fine,” she replied, taking Rosie’s hand and heading towards the bathroom. “It could be worse; Sherlock will probably be changing a nappy in his suit. Unless he makes John do it – though I think that might be stretching the role of Best Man.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Molls,” Meena said, leaning into the hallway. “I found some of Will’s clothes folded under a cushion in the living room – some funny little dungarees, a bowtie and some other stuff. It’s not his outfit for today, is it?”

Molly sighed and rolled her eyes. The hiding place suggested premeditation rather than forgetfulness – Sherlock was very likely up to something. She hoped it was more than just trying to annoy his mother ( _your mother-in-law in a couple of hours_ , a voice reminded Molly). She asked Meena to put it in her bag, and took Rosie into the bathroom.

If there was anything that was going to keep you grounded on your wedding day, perching on the edge of the bath in your wedding dress while a toddler uses the loo would do it. But Molly wouldn’t have changed a thing. When John wasn’t around, she felt her godparenting responsibilities even more acutely, made her feel even more protective towards Rosie, even though the little girl didn’t yet understand why.

She helped Rosie into her dress, tights and cardigan, brushed her wavy blonde hair and added an Alice band with a rose attached to it.  Rose-of-the-world indeed; Mary should be seeing this.

When they emerged from the bathroom, Meena and Mrs Hudson made an appropriate amount of fuss, and Meena offered to help Rosie to put on her new shoes and take her down to the cab. Molly quickly kissed Rosie’s head and started to run through a mental checklist of things she needed to take with her.

“Come in here for a moment, dear,” Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen. “We nearly forgot something.”

Frowning, Molly did as she was told, and found her landlady standing at the kitchen island with two champagne flutes. She immediately knew why, her mind taking her back to the cab ride home after her hen do.

“She’s here with us,” Mrs Hudson said, smiling. “She always will be.”

Molly felt a lump form in her throat, along with the first prick of tears.

“To Mary Rosamund Watson,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“And to the best godmother she could have chosen,” Mrs Hudson added, linking her arm with Molly’s. “I’m talking about you, dear, although I like to think I’m a close second.”

Molly laughed, not caring in that moment what happened to the mascara Meena had carefully applied half an hour earlier.

“Now, drink up,” Mrs Hudson said, swiftly draining her own glass. “That fiancé of yours may have a very big brain, but you know he’ll turn into a panicky old lady if you’re even a minute late.”

 

00000000000

It probably should have been a strange thing to not know where she was getting married, but by the time the cab left Baker Street, the only thing on Molly’s mind was how impatient she was to see Sherlock. That said, as the taxi turned right just before the British Library and headed down past Russell Square, Molly could feel her stomach tighten with nerves. Nerves, excitement and almost disbelief that this was finally, really happening.

The cab seemed to be taking a very familiar route, and when the they continued all the way down Holborn, Molly pinched her lips together as a smile started to break through. She had a good hunch about where she was getting married.

“Oh, good lord, why are we at the hospital again?” Mrs Hudson asked, as the taxi slowed to let some staff in medical scrubs cross the street.

“If you’re getting married in the morgue, Molls, you should have warned us,” Meena said, in an amused tone. “We’re going to need coats. And a strong stomach for the meal.”

“I think we’re going back to the museum,” Molly said, smiling, as much to herself as to the others.

Sure enough, the cab turned down to the lane to the building that housed Bart’s Pathology Museum, and was flagged down by two familiar, suited figures. As soon as Rosie spotted John, she started waving her arms and straining to get out of her car seat. He opened the door and Molly helped Rosie to get out of the car to see him.

“Ladies,” Greg smiled, holding out his hand to help first Meena and then Mrs Hudson out of the cab.

“Martha, you look gorgeous!” he declared. “Are you going to allow me the honour of escorting you inside?”

“You should be so lucky,” Mrs Hudson replied, rolling her eyes. “We need someone to carry all the bags.”

John set Rosie down on the pavement with Meena and offered his hand to Molly. When she finally landed on the pavement and straightened out her dress, she saw John’s eyes widen spontaneously.

“Wow, Molls, you look…amazing,” he said. “Really, really…incredible. I should probably warn Sherlock – can’t have him fainting at the altar. Or whatever we’re using as an altar – it’s a display cabinet, but I’ve been trying not to look too closely at what’s inside it.”

“Sherlock arranged this?” Molly asked, taking John’s arm.

“His idea, Mycroft’s ability to cut through red tape,” John replied. “Though I think what swung it for the museum director was you. You know, from one pathologist to another. You ready for this?”

Molly nodded quickly, smiling. Meena tapped her on the arm and handed her the small, neat bouquet of cream-coloured roses, peach carnations and gypsophila. Their small party then made their way through the Henry VIII Gate, prompting a few double-takes from staff and patients as they crossed through the square and in through the Minor Injuries unit.

She hadn’t expected to have to take a lift three floors to her wedding venue (or to share that lift with two nurses and a man with an IV drip stand) but there was something delightfully off-kilter about the whole thing – and deeply personal, too. Her first senior job, her first meeting with Sherlock, falling in love with him, their first proper date, the birth of their son – all events that had taken place within the footprint of St Bartholomew’s Hospital.  

As they grew closer to the museum entrance, Molly began to hear the murmured conversations from the gathered guests, and it set off a swarm of butterflies. And she knew that if  _she_  was experiencing butterflies, Sherlock – for whom large groups of people were usually to be tolerated at best – could be on a verge of nervous collapse, particularly without John’s reassuring presence.

“John,” she whispered, leaning into him as they walked. “Is he okay?”

“I think it’s a good thing he’s got Will to keep him busy,” John replied. “When I left, Will was leading him in circuits around the room.”

“Um, what’s Will wearing?” Molly asked. “I’ve got his outfit in my bag.”

John frowned, clearly unaware of the knickerbockers-and-bow-tie debacle.

“He’s wearing his outfit,” he replied, in a puzzled tone, adding, “Everything’s fine, Molls. Greg and I are going to head back in there now, so are you happy you know what you’re doing? When you hear the music, that’s your cue. Greg’s going to open the door. Meena, Mrs H?”

“We know what we’re doing,” Mrs Hudson replied, with a shooing gesture. “You just worry about the groom.”

John said a quick goodbye to Rosie, assuring her that he would see her very soon, and reminding her that she had to hold Aunty Molly’s hand when going into the big room.

When John and Greg had gone, Molly felt herself taking a deep breath. This was it. This was really it. She was aware that a hush had fallen over the museum hall, and realised that Mike must have asked people to take their seats in readiness.

Meena had tiptoed over to the door and peeped through the glass; she turned to Molly and gave an exaggerated thumbs-up. She tottered back to her side.

“It looks amazing in there!” she whispered.

“Did you see him?” Molly heard herself asking. The anticipation was making her heart race, which felt ridiculous – this was the father of her child, the man she woke up with almost every day, the man with whom she’d nearly had sofa-sex twelve hours ago.  

Meena rolled her eyes indulgently.

“Yes. And Detective Sexy looks amazing, too,” she replied. “And not like he’s about to throw up, so that’s a bonus.”

Molly giggled, feeling tears start to well up again.

“Sshh now, none of that!” Mrs Hudson gently reprimanded, handing her a tissue from her handbag. “You’ll have us all in tears, and then where will we be?”

Again, Molly laughed, carefully dabbing at her eyes.

“Do I look okay?” she asked.

“You look wonderful, Molly,” Mrs Hudson replied, squeezing her arm. “Now, go and make an honest man out of Sherlock Holmes. Goodness knows we’ve all been waiting long enough.”

At that moment, the near-silence from the hall was broken by the gentle opening bars of violin music. Molly didn’t recognise the piece, but instantly recognised the musician and composer; her face broke into a smile. She bent to kiss Rosie’s head before taking her goddaughter’s hand; Meena and Mrs Hudson shuffled into position behind her, and in that moment, Molly felt surrounded by love. It wouldn’t have felt right for anyone but her dad to give her away, and the concept of being ‘given away’ didn’t sit entirely right with her, either – she had been living an independent life for nearly twenty years, and she and Sherlock were giving themselves to each other as equals. Her little coterie of females, ranging in age from two to eighty, was all she needed.

Molly saw Greg’s face appear in the window of the museum door, and a second later, as the doors were opened, music flooded into the hallway where they were waiting. Immediately, she felt lifted up, felt the love behind the melody. An encouraging hand quickly squeezed the top of her arm, and they started to walk.

It was impossible to take everything in as she entered the hall; the music, the smiling faces turned towards them, the transformation of the old Victorian museum. Rows of chairs had been set out on the polished parquet floor to form an aisle, and the flowers – matching her bouquet - that would have been adorning their original wedding venue were now arranged around the seating to make the vast hall appear more intimate.

Once Molly had recovered from the initial spectacle, she saw him for the first time. Although his mother would probably scold him later for bucking tradition, Sherlock had turned to face the procession, and his eyes immediately locked with hers. His smile was breathtaking and his gaze so unguarded in its honesty. And God, he was so bloody handsome! The dusky blue-grey suit was cut to perfection. Molly was struck by a fleeting, impish thought that it probably wasn’t appropriate to be quite  _this_  turned on in a public place, _and_ with her future in-laws watching.

Sherlock was holding William, who Molly could now see was wearing a suit identical to his father’s, even down to the little necktie (which she could see from William’s grip on it, was on an elastic). As soon as William saw her approaching, he started to wriggle and call out, which sent a ripple of fond laughter around the room. She saw Sherlock murmur something to him and encourage him to wave to her instead; her hands occupied by Rosie and the bouquet, she couldn’t return to wave, but soon enough Molly was beside them.

John showed Rosie to her seat at the front with Mrs Hudson and Meena, and at this point Molly spotted several other familiar faces, including not only Sherlock’s parents, Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, but also Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson and the whole Stamford family.

“Look how handsome you are, sweetheart!” Molly whispered to William, kissing him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, raising a roguish eyebrow at her.

“You mum is going to kill us,” Molly whispered, biting down on a smile.

“She’ll get over it,” he said. “Besides, I’m about to do the one thing she thought would never happen.”

Greg stepped forward to take William from Sherlock’s arms, sitting him on his knee on the front row next to Sherlock’s parents. Molly could see Mike making some final checks.

“You look…astonishingly beautiful,” Sherlock whispered. “I am about to get very, very lucky indeed.”

Molly sniggered, suppressing her laughter behind her bouquet. She had to remind herself that thirty other people were in the room, probably all watching them intently.

“You wrote this?” Molly asked, tilting her head to listen to the music. “This is you?”

She saw Sherlock’s cheeks colour a little.

“Yes,” he replied. “I recorded it the night of your hen do. Do you like it?”

Molly smiled, nodding. She had to fight the instinct to grab him by his lapels and kiss him – Sherlock’s mother, and Mrs Hudson, would definitely have something to say about  _that_.

They were almost too distracted by each other to notice that Mike Stamford was now standing in front of them. He softly cleared his throat, and when Molly looked around, he was smiling pointedly.

“Are we ready to start?” he asked, quietly.

There was a quick exchange of glances between them, and Molly saw her own excitement reflected in Sherlock’s eyes - despite his straight-backed attempt at formality, he wasn’t fooling her for a second. She saw him reach into his jacket pocket for a moment, as though adjusting something, before straightening the lines of his suit again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends – and little people, too,” Mike began, smiling towards Rosie and William. “It is my huge privilege and pleasure to stand before you today – in this particularly unique venue that I personally know very well - to perform this civil marriage ceremony. Sherlock and Molly are good friends of mine, and I know that you all share my excitement and heartfelt good wishes to them on this wonderful occasion, their special day.”

Molly felt Sherlock’s fingers brush hers, seeking permission to take her hand, as she listened to the rest of Mike’s warm, genial welcome and introduction.

“Now for the bit that makes everyone nervous,” Mike said. “As you know, I have to ask that if any person present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, they should declare it now. And before you speak, please remember that the bride’s poor taste doesn’t count.”

A ripple of soft laughter passed through the room, and Molly couldn’t help but giggle, too; when she glanced up at Sherlock, he was looking at Mike through narrowed eyes, but accepting the good-natured teasing.

Before Molly knew it, they were being asked to make their declarations, and suddenly the swarm of butterflies was stirred again. Sherlock had previously insisted that he could quite easily memorise his lines, with no need to repeat after the registrar, and a hush fell over the museum as he began.

“I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, William Sherlock Scott, may not be joined in matrimony to Molly Louise.”

Mike thanked him, and Molly saw Sherlock quickly flick a glance her way.

“I do solemnly declare,” Molly began, emotion catching in her throat. “That I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Molly Louise, may not be joined in matrimony to William Sherlock Scott.”

She heard a little noise from the audience, certain it was a sob from her almost-mother-in-law.

“Thank you, Molly,” Mike said, smiling. “Now, we move on to the contracting words – we’re nearly there. Sherlock, I’m going to ask you to go first.”

Sherlock turned to face Molly, once again taking her hand in his. She almost didn’t dare look at him, teetering as she was on the brink of happy tears, and she could hear that Sherlock’s own voice was thick with emotion as he spoke.

“I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, William, take you, Molly, to be my wedded wife.”

At that point, Molly heard a squawk from the audience and realised that their son had heard his own name. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw William bouncing on Greg’s knee, arms outstretched towards them. Again, soft laughter broke out in the hall.  

“Little busy right now, William,” Sherlock said. “Mummy and I will be with you shortly.”

Sherlock turned back to her and smiled. On cue, John stepped forward and Sherlock took a ring from his hand; in that split second, Molly could see writing inscribed on the inside of the ring, but there was no time to wonder. Sherlock lifted her hand and gently eased the ring onto her finger; it paired so beautifully with the ring she had worn for the past nine months.

“Molly, I give you this ring as a token of my love for you and as a symbol of our marriage,” he said, his voice low, his eyes fixed on her. “I hope you feel that I have expressed to you in private the depth of my love and affection, and I promise you that I will continue to do so for the rest of our time together. But for the benefit of everyone here today, I would like to say once again that Molly, you have given me more than I ever believed I deserved. You were my friend when I desired no friends, and you loved me when I wasn’t worthy of your love. I promise you that I will strive every day to be deserving of that love, and I will never stop telling you how grateful, how truly blessed, I am that you waited for me – that last bit was for my mother, but I mean it wholeheartedly.”

Molly put her free hand to her mouth, uttering a half-sob, half-laugh, as the guests laughed, too.

“Molly, thank you for everything that you do and everything that you are. Thank you for our wonderful, beautiful, wedding-upstaging son; you and he have irrevocably changed my perception of the world and of myself – and give hope to everyone that even the most rude, ignorant and unpleasant of human beings are capable of redemption. Your love gives me strength, wisdom and safe harbour, and it can’t help but make me a better person.”

The sight of Sherlock’s crinkle-eyed smile ensured that she couldn’t keep the tears at bay any longer; in a second, John was handing her his pocket-square.

“This is the adventure that I never knew I wanted,” he said, stroking his thumb over her new wedding band. “But which I now couldn’t imagine my life without. It seems insufficient to say that I love you, but Molly, I  _do_  love you, and regardless of where this adventure takes us, I always will.”

Molly felt as though her breath had been stolen, and once again she had to resist the urge to fling her arms around his neck. Instead, she allowed Sherlock to take John’s handkerchief and brush the tears away from her cheeks.

“Does the bride need a minute?” Mike asked. Even he looked as though he’d been affected by Sherlock’s words.

Eyes still on Sherlock, Molly pressed her lips together and shook her head. Drawing a breath, waiting for a moment to allow the pace of her heart to settle, she began.

“I call upon these persons here present,” she said, determined to savour every word. “To witness that I, Molly, take you, William, to be my wedded husband. I give you this ring as a token of my love for you and as a symbol of our marriage.”

John gave her a supportive wink as he held out the larger ring for her to take. Taking hold of Sherlock’s left hand, she allowed her fingers to linger on his calloused fingertips and the tiny, pearly scars that told the story of his exploits over the past two decades. Holding his eyes with hers, she slid the ring on to his finger until it would go no further.

 “I…I’m not going to pretend that I can match that,” she smiled. “But when I was getting ready this morning, Meena reminded me of something I said to her eight years ago, something I’d forgotten about.”

Molly heard a tiny whoop from her friend in the audience, which raised a laugh.

“We met up for lunch in the staff canteen, right here at Bart’s, and apparently I said to her that everything was fine, because I’d just met the man I was going to marry.”

Sherlock was giving her an amused, sidelong smile, and she felt a pleasant flush rise in her cheeks. She knew she would have to elaborate on this tale later, in private.

“Unfortunately for me,” Molly continued, biting down on her own smile. “It took that man a little while to come around to my way of thinking. But Sherlock…in case you ever doubted it, you were worth that wait. And you said you weren’t worthy of my love…well, I didn’t always understand that love, either; I just knew that I loved you and that there was no point in fighting it. I love your brilliant brain, of course I do, but it wasn’t that that made me love you  - you…you always said that feelings, sentiment wasn’t your area, but I knew that it wasn’t that you  _didn’t_  feel, it was that you felt too much. I fell in love with your heart.”

She saw Sherlock blink hard, his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Thank you for trusting me with that heart,” she added. “And thank you for our little boy, who I hope will grow up to be as much like his father as he looks like him. Sherlock…I know we took kind of a weird, circuitous route to get here, but,” – Molly smiled, took another deep breath – “we’re here.”

When the words were out of her mouth, Molly felt slightly lightheaded, but she was immediately fortified by the soft, spontaneous applause behind them, and the intensely loving way in which Sherlock was regarding her.

Mike thanked them both.

“Sherlock and Molly have made their declarations before you all today, have spoken the words that make this marriage a legally-binding contract, and have exchanged their vows to each other,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “So, without further ado, it gives me enormous pleasure to pronounce them husband and wife.”

There was a pause while the words sank in, and Molly heard John clear his throat at the same time as Mike tapped Sherlock on the elbow.

“I’m sure I won’t have to tell you twice,” he smiled. “But you may now kiss the bride.”

Once again, Molly felt a whoosh of breath in her body as Sherlock closed the distance between them. Cradling her jaw with his long fingers, he smiled at her slightly dreamily before bringing his lips to hers. He kissed her slowly, reverently - presumably committing the moment to memory as she was urging herself to do, too.

“Daddy! Look! Kissy-kissy _again_!”

Molly felt Sherlock laugh against her lips, as the laughter, cheering and clapping spread throughout the room. John gave them both an apologetic look before turning to address the scene-stealer. Rosie was standing on her chair, pointing with both hands in case her father could be in any doubt. Beside her, Meena was doing nothing to hide her own enjoyment of the scene.

Defiant as ever, Sherlock caught Molly again and swooped in for a second kiss.

“Wife,” he whispered, nuzzling her nose with his.

“Husband,” Molly whispered, thrilling at the sound of it.

Mike eventually succeeded in herding them over to the table that had been set up for signing the marriage register. Goodness knows how Mycroft had managed to overcome council bureaucracy to make this happen – she would be sure to thank him later. She recognised Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 3 playing as she wrote her married name for the first time (contrary to what anyone might assume, she had  _not_  been practicing it for the past eight years), and tried to persuade Sherlock to smile for the photographer (surreptitiously goosing him as he stood beside her seemed to work).

“If you’d all like to gather, the bride and groom are going to make their exit,” Mike called, tucking the register under his arm.

“Wait, wait!” Meena called. “The bouquet!”

Molly heard Sherlock groan at what he clearly perceived to be yet another tedious wedding tradition – or possibly just another thing delaying his wedding night. She tried not to dwell on  _that_  quite yet. Meena dashed over to hand her the flowers, and Molly turned her back on the gathered guests.

As the bouquet landed, she heard Sherlock snort and a peal of laughter ring out. Turning around, she saw Greg holding the flowers in one hand, while William was balanced on his opposite hip.

“Nice catch, boss!” Sally Donovan called.

“I was only tryin’ to stop my godson getting’ hit,” Greg replied, bemused. “But I’m gonna consider that a result.”

“The ability of a bunch of flowers to divine future marital prospects is somewhat unproven,” Sherlock said. “But for a man of your advancing years, you do have surprisingly impressive reflexes, Lestrade.”

Sherlock stepped forward to lift William out of Greg’s arms and into his.

“You’ve just done that thing again where you insult me and compliment me at the same time, haven’t you?” Greg said, rolling his eyes.

Molly giggled, and Sherlock offered her his arm, one eyebrow raised as though to say  _shall we?_ She quickly leaned in to kiss first William and then Sherlock before their guests parted to each side of the aisle to allow them to make their exit.

“Where are we going?” Molly whispered, as they reached the open door.  

It wasn’t like other wedding venues, where you emerged from your ceremony onto a beautifully-manicured lawn or a pretty, cobbled churchyard.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock replied. “But let’s do it quickly. I have a horrible feeling that my mother might be in a hugging mood.”

At that moment, Molly didn’t particularly care either – she was quite prepared to follow her new husband to the ends of the earth.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story ain’t done yet – there’s a party to be had. Watch this space for Best Man speeches, cake, the return of William’s outfit-from-hell and no doubt quite an emotional Mummy and Dad….
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding part 2
> 
> Slight warning for food porn, but no actual porn :-)

He was right about this mother. For a moment, he’d wondered whether there was a slim chance she and his father might get themselves lost in the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital, but as it turned out, they were among the first to make it across to Postman’s Park – before the photographer had even finished setting up.

His mother seemed oblivious to the fact that he was rather ardently kissing his new wife ( _wife!_ ), because there was little more than the clearing of a throat before Sherlock found himself wrenched away from a very pleasurable activity and being yanked towards Wanda Holmes’ ample bosom.

“Oh, darling, congratulations!” his mother cried, pulling away far enough to take his face in both of her hands. “Congratulations to both of you!”

With her nearest hand, she moved to pull Molly into the hug as well.

“Yes, Mother, we were rather busy congratulating each other up until a moment ago,” Sherlock replied, making an aim at taciturn, but aware that he good barely keep a big, idiotic smile off his face.

“Oh, I know you were, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later!” his mother replied, Teflon-coated as ever. “We’re just so thrilled for you both! And look at you, darling – you look so  _happy_!”

“Yes, well…thank you,” Sherlock replied, feeling Molly’s fingers thread through his and noting the pleasing presence of the new ring.

“Nicely done, dear boy!” his father chuckled, putting an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m not afraid to admit that I got a little bit misty-eyed back there.”

His father released him and gave him a wink.

“Your mother, of course, was her usual model of stoicism and restraint,” he added.

 “I won’t apologise for crying at my own son’s wedding,” his mother said, moving to put her arm around Molly’s waist. “Especially when he has made such a wonderful choice. And especially when he used such beautiful words. It’s all just too much to take in – we wait more than four decades and then both of our sons are married in the space of three months!”

As if on cue, Mycroft appeared alongside their parents, arm-in-arm with Lady Smallwood. Her free hand was clasping the arm that held hers. It was probably the occasion that was to blame, but Sherlock found himself oddly touched by the display, modest though it seemed - but if Mycroft had even a fraction of what  _he_  had with Molly, he was a richer man for it.

“Interesting venue, brother mine,” Mycroft said, with a raised eyebrow. “Alicia and I had a somewhat…alarming experience in the lift a few moments ago.”

Sherlock saw Lady Smallwood roll her eyes.

“Nothing alarming about it, Mycroft,” she said. “Merely a young woman in the early stages of labour. You have led a very sheltered life, my dear.”

“I hardly think that’s true,” his brother replied.

“Anyway,” Lady Smallwood continued. “What you brother is trying to say, Sherlock, Molly, is that he is delighted for you both. You look absolutely beautiful, Molly, and it was such a lovely ceremony. You both spoke very movingly, too.”

She pressed kisses to first Molly’s cheek and then Sherlock’s, taking their hands in hers as she did so.

“Mycroft would tell you that it was the dust in the museum disagreeing with his allergies, but I can assure you he was moved, too,” she added, with a smile.

Sherlock saw his brother’s eyes gaze heavenwards for a moment before offering his wife a tolerant smile.

“It was indeed a charming ceremony,” he agreed. “And nothing that a dose of antihistamine won’t relieve.”

Just when Sherlock was expecting either their mother or father to scold Mycroft about his lack of exuberance and  _bonhomie_ , Molly stepped forward and placed a hand on his brother’s arm.

“Thank you, Mycroft, for everything you did to make this happen,” she said. “I know it was all very short-notice, and I’m incredibly grateful, and I’m sure Sherlock is, too.”

Molly gave Mycroft a quick kiss on the cheek, and Sherlock could almost see his brother visibly puff up; Molly certainly knew how best to thaw out the Ice Man.

“Yes, well, it was my pleasure, of course,” he replied, preening a little. “And Gretna Green would have been the most ghastly of alternatives.”

Sherlock saw his brother’s expression change slightly, a more genuine smile breaking through.

“You have my most heartfelt congratulations, Molly,” Mycroft said, taking up her hand and kissing it. “And Alicia is correct, as always – you do look very lovely. Sherlock, I see my tailor was able to work miracles for your special day.”

Sherlock snorted at his brother, the master of the back-handed compliment.  But when Mycroft held out his hand, Sherlock took it and clasped it in a shake. Both men seemed to step closer to each other; the contact didn’t develop into a hug ( _God forbid!_ ), but Sherlock placed his free hand on his older brother’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” he said. “For getting me here.”

He saw a smile pull at the corner of his brother’s mouth.

“You’re welcome, brother mine,” Mycroft replied, his voice so low as to keep the exchange private. “Congratulations. I take great joy in witnessing your happiness.”

The next fifteen minutes seemed to consist of one set of congratulations after another, finishing up with John, who, along with Lestrade, had finally managed to herd the last of the guests over to the park. People with whom Sherlock had never before had any physical contact now seemed to feel they had license to throw themselves at him. Hearty handshakes, horribly continental cheek-kisses, back-slaps, shoulder-pats and full-on bear-hugs – nothing seemed to be off the table. By the time the photographer called them to order, Sherlock felt as though he’d been slightly violated – much to his new wife’s amusement, apparently. Molly pulled him in for a quick snog before sending him off to find William, who had apparently come close to giving Mrs Hudson heart failure by attempting to climb into the ornamental fountain.

The formal photographs were about as tedious as Sherlock expected them to be, and he found himself being shushed by Molly on a number of occasions.

“I have a Mind Palace for this sort of thing,” he whispered, as once again he was requested to gaze lovingly at his wife.

Molly rolled her eyes and smiled.

“Bit difficult to make a photo album from your Mind Palace,” she replied, her nose crinkling.

Once every conceivable configuration of people had been photographed, Sherlock paused to call ahead to the restaurant. As he was ending the call, he felt something hit the back of his legs with not inconsiderable force; before he could even look, he felt tiny – and very familiar – little fingers grab his trousers, followed by arms wrapping around his knee and a small face burying into the back of his leg.

Sherlock swivelled around as far as he could, his hand automatically reaching behind him to steady William, who was looking up at him delightedly. His immediate thought was to look around, but it seemed that nobody was with him…which didn’t make any sense.

He eased his son’s fingers from his leg in order to take his hand, and at that moment Lestrade jogged over.

“Sorry, Sherlock. One second ‘e was ‘olding onto the bench and the next second ‘e’d got away from me,” he said.

Sherlock glanced down at William (who was trying to climb his leg) and then up at Lestrade again.

“What do you mean ‘got away’ from you?” he frowned. “That would be impressive even for you, Lestrade, given that he can’t walk on his own.”

Lestrade shrugged, his face starting to break into a grin.

“Try tellin’ ‘im that.”

The frown did not leave Sherlock’s face, but his heart began to pound as he crouched down to William’s level.

“William, did you walk all by yourself?” he asked. Before having a child of his own, these one-way conversations with infants always seemed moronic, but now it seemed to be second nature.

In response, William laughed and tried to take a bite out of Sherlock’s lapel rose.

“How about we try something then?” Sherlock said, changing tack and rescuing the flower before it was chewed too thoroughly. “What if we go over here and see whether we can walk over to Mummy?”

Sherlock set William down on the grass a few feet away from where Molly was standing, talking to some friends from the hospital.

“Go and see Mummy,” he said, pointing. “Show her what a clever boy you are.”

After a wobbly start, William started to make his way across the grass on his own, heading with visible purpose towards his target. Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat and was so focused on willing on his son that he almost forgot to warn Molly, only calling out to her when William was inches away.

She turned just in time, and Sherlock saw her brain adjusting to what it was she was seeing. She crouched down quickly and caught William as he fell forward into her lap, her dress acting as a safety net. Evidently, a number of the other wedding guests had been watching, too, and a small round of cheers and applause broke out. Molly’s mouth had formed a perfect ‘o’.

“Pretty clever, hm?” Sherlock smiled, coming over to her. Molly actually had tears in her eyes.

“Yes!” she said, kissing William and holding his hands to steady him. “And you’re such a show-off, too, aren’t you?”

“Which-?”

“I was talking about Will,” Molly smiled. “But he’s got a good role-model. And now aren’t you glad we’ve got a proper photographer here?”

William was required to repeat his party trick for the photographer, his grandparents, his godparents and most of the rest of the guests, all armed with their phones. Eventually, Sherlock caught sight of a fleet of black cabs snaking their way up King Edward Street, and very soon John and Lestrade were herding guests towards the vehicles. This would be the perfect opportunity, Sherlock noted, for he and Molly to abscond, but he tried not to dwell too long on that temptation. He had just packed his parents into a taxi when Sherlock was alerted to something behind him by a horrified gasp.

He turned around in time to see William being hauled out of a puddle by Molly.

“Um, someone overestimated their new skills,” Molly said, gingerly. “Does it look bad?”

Their son was streaked from ankle to nose with muddy water.

Sherlock grimaced; he knew what this meant.

Five minutes later, William’s suit was bundled into a plastic bag and he was instead dressed in pale-blue knickerbocker dungarees, frilly socks, a ruffled shirt and a bowtie. He didn’t seem half as concerned about it as Sherlock felt he should.

“On the plus side, your mum is going to love you even more,” Molly grinned.

“That’s the plus-side?” Sherlock questioned, as he picked up William. Although he knew Molly was right – his mother might even think he’d planned the wardrobe change especially.

A slight autumn wind had started to build, and Sherlock slipped off his jacket so that he could arrange it over Molly’s shoulders. She smiled her thanks, and they both instinctively leaned in to kiss each other. Gangs of sham-marriage brokers hadn’t managed to ruin this day, and he wasn’t about to let his mother’s taste in children’s-wear sour the occasion either.

“Your carriage awaits,” John said, appearing behind them and gesturing to the last cab in the queue, the one decorated with wedding ribbons.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Molly asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock shifted William onto his left hip and put his right arm around Molly’s shoulder. He smiled, tilting his head to one side.

“I hope you’re in the mood for Italian, Mrs Holmes?”

00000000000000

By the time they arrived at Angelo’s, the other guests were already enjoying Prosecco and aperitifs. The restauranteur rushed over to greet them and to add his congratulations, shaking Sherlock’s hand with some vigour and kissing Molly’s cheeks so many times that he lost count.

“And the  _bello bambino_ , too!” Angelo cried, pinching William’s cheek. “And look at this outfit – so Italian!”

Probably not what his grandmother was aiming for, Sherlock reflected, but at least it meant there were now  _two_  people in the room who liked it.

“For you, young Guglielmo,” Angelo continued, gently poking a finger at William’s tummy. “My very best spaghetti Bolognese!”

With the tight schedule he and John had been working to, Sherlock had been forced to trust the details of the reception to Angelo and his staff, but from first impressions, his friend had certainly risen to the occasion. Angelo had thought nothing of closing the whole restaurant to the public, and had promised Sherlock that he would put together a menu fit for an Italian wedding feast. The whole restaurant was adorned with fairy-lights, and the tables all bore neat floral displays; Sherlock recognised one of Vivaldi’s string concertos playing softly in the background.

Sherlock watched Molly’s expression as she took it all in.

“Is it…okay?” he ventured.

Molly turned to him and said with a smirk, “What would you do if it wasn’t?”

“Suggest we go for chips?”

She grinned, leaning into him.

“It’s perfect, Sherlock,” she said. “Why didn’t we think of this months ago?”

Angelo’s staff had even managed to configure the room to allow for a top table, although theirs broke with tradition somewhat, with the inclusion of two highchairs for William and Rosie. Because neither of Molly’s parents were around, Sherlock had been grateful for his father’s suggestion that he and his mother sit on a separate table instead. They were already seated, deep in conversation with Mrs Hudson and the Stamfords (who seem to have managed to divest themselves of some of their children  _en route_  to the restaurant). On the next table over were Scotland Yard’s finest, exchanging work anecdotes with some of Molly’s lab colleagues.

As the rest of the guests were settling down and drinks were being poured, Sherlock could see John heading his way. At the same moment, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he dug it out.

“Everything okay?” John asked, above the bustle.

 Sherlock gave a short burst of laughter before holding out his phone.

“What am I looking at?” John asked, frowning. “Wait, that’s not…?”

“The decoy wedding, yes,” Sherlock smiled. “Photos courtesy of Wiggins.”

“Apart from that crap wig, he’s actually a passable Sherlock Holmes,” John snorted. “Which is more than I can say for the rest of them. Who is that old woman and why is she carrying a very small shop dummy?”

Sherlock zoomed in on the image.

“I believe that’s supposed to be Molly and William,” he replied. “I did tell Wiggins to improvise.”

“What about the twenty-stone man in the knackered top hat next to Wiggins? I’m guessing that’s supposed to be Mycroft rather than me?”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I think  _that’s_  supposed to be you.”

John looked again.

“That’s a child.”

“Nope,” Sherlock said.

John looked again and then rolled his eyes.

“Oh wonderful, an actual dwarf!” he said. “And I suppose this is all over Twitter now?”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Yup. The tabloids are apparently furious: Best. Wedding. Present. Ever!”

John snorted.

“You ready to get started?” he said. “I’m guessing you’re pretty keen to get to the honeymoon.”

Even  _thinking_  about the honeymoon was chronically distracting, particularly as he took his seat beside Molly and was once again struck by not only how beautiful she looked, but also by the step they had just taken. He got it now; there  _was_  a difference.

Angelo’s maître d’ called the room to order, and John got to his feet. Sherlock felt Molly slide her hand underneath his, and he clasped it. As John was formally welcoming everyone, and thanking Angelo for his generous hosting, Sherlock realised that his Best Man didn’t have any cue cards.

“Being here today has been a gift to my speechwriting,” John began. “Because about eight years ago, I was sitting at a table right over there with a man I’d only just met, a man who was about to become my flatmate, and he told me very firmly that he was married to his work. Granted, I think at the time he was trying to discourage any romantic designs I might have on him-”

Sherlock noted that nobody laughed louder at this than Angelo himself.  

“-but I was left under no illusion that Sherlock Holmes had no interest in romantic entanglements. This was reinforced on numerous occasions during our work together, and no more so than at my own wedding, where Sherlock kindly shared his views in a way that only Sherlock knows how. Nothing warms the heart more than having your big day compared to a deathwatch beetle, signaling the doom of humanity, so thank you for that, mate.”

Sherlock felt Molly lean against his arm, laughing softly into his shoulder.

“And I wouldn’t be doing my job as his Best Man if I didn’t also mention his erm, colourful, description of the state of union that he and Molly have now entered into as a celebration of  - I think I’m quoting correctly, Sherlock? - everything ‘false, specious, irrational and sentimental’. But I didn’t believe it then any more than I do now. Nor did I truly believe his other claims, that he was dismissive of the virtuous and ignorant of the beautiful – I think today, if nothing else, disproves that particular theory.”

Sherlock turned his head far enough to press his lips to Molly’s hairline.

John cleared his throat.

“Two years ago, things were particularly dark for me,” he said, eyes cast momentarily downwards. “For all of us. There were times when I not only couldn’t see any light at the end of the tunnel, I could barely feel the tunnel beneath my feet. But the one good - the one truly extraordinary - thing to come out of it all was Sherlock and Molly finally finding each other. Well, two good things, if you count their little boy – the two things happened in quick succession. In fact, I wasn’t aware there was anything even going on until one afternoon in Baker Street when Sherlock blithely told me that Molly was pregnant – about half an hour before  _she_  told  _him_.”

There was an outbreak of laughter. It seemed incredible that these events took place less than two years ago, although John’s threat of testicular injury – should Sherlock fail to do the right thing by Molly – funnily enough still rang clear as a bell.

“For about five minutes I thought it might be possible that the whole relationship was just an exercise devised by Sherlock to show up my poor observational skills,” John continued. “But thankfully there was more to it. Anyway, that little episode gives you a good sense of what both their relationship and the past couple of years have been like; not for the fainthearted, but worth every second. Mate -” he turned to address Sherlock – “It has been an immense privilege to be your friend, sidekick, minder and occasional voice of sanity over the past eight years. Seeing you create this life for yourself, with Molly, has been nothing short of amazing. You are a loyal friend, a wonderful dad, and I have no doubt that your talents as a husband will put husbands everywhere to shame, too. We’ll check back with Molly in forty years.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, blinking while Molly caressed his hand. It was hard to listen to these words from John without thinking about the gap at the top table, the person who should have been seated with them.

 “Now, to Molly,” John said, smiling. “And here, I have to start with an apology. It is to my shame that I realised I only really came to know Molly – really get to know her as a friend – through my wife, Mary. The fact that Mary thought so well of Molly, cared so much for her and valued her friendship, is, for me, the highest praise that I can give. As you all know, I…we lost Mary, and without Molly’s immediate and unstinting support - both practical and emotional - for both Rosie and me, I know our lives would now be very different.”

He paused to take a sip of water, and Sherlock could see how close to the surface everything was for John, even after all this time.

“As you probably know, we all live under the same roof these days, albeit with some crucial physical boundaries in place – because something you may  _not_  all be aware of is the groom’s penchant for casual nudity. Of course, Molly probably considers this less of an eyesore than I did when I was living with him.”

The laughter from the guests seemed to act as a buoyancy aid.

“In our strange, slightly dysfunctional home, Sherlock has his great big brain, I like to think of myself as the voice of common sense, and Mrs Hudson keeps us all in line,” John said, winking at their landlady. “Molly is all of those things - but above all, Molly is the beating heart of 221 Baker Street. Nobody has benefitted more from that heart’s capacity for patience, forgiveness, compassion and, above all, love than Sherlock. And today, he’s had the good sense to acknowledge it publicly.”

John grinned as he caught Sherlock’s eye and then reached for his glass; there was definitely a tear in his eye.

“Molly, Sherlock, I love you both deeply, and nothing gives me more pleasure than to ask everyone here to raise their glasses to you as you begin this new chapter. The bride and groom – Molly and Sherlock.”

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure whether it was considered proper wedding etiquette – and cared even less - but as their guests responded to the toast, Sherlock turned and cradled Molly’s face in a kiss. Molly clearly didn’t care either, as she returned his kiss with equal fervour, her fingers curling into the nape of his neck.

It took a few moments for the whoops and cheers to die down ( _really, people were very easily pleased_ ), and Sherlock felt slightly lightheaded as he got to his feet and thanked John.

“What won’t surprise you all is that I am unable to let John Watson have the final word,” he said, raising an eyebrow at his Best Man. “But what may surprise you is that I intend to keep this brief – you all want food, and I would like my honeymoon to commence fairly soon. I am aware that I have not and do not express my gratitude enough, so please pay attention, as this may not happen again for some time. First of all, thank you to Mike Stamford for stepping into the breach today. So not only did Mike provide me with a friend and flatmate all those years ago, he has now technically provided me with a wife, too.  Somehow it now matters less that I still have absolutely no idea what it is he does at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

Sherlock paused, as Stamford chuckled and raised his glass.

“Thank you to Greg Lestrade for helping to avert a catastrophe, my brother Mycroft for the ease and speed in which he is able to subvert tiresome wedding legalities, and Mrs Hudson, for finally accepting that I had no intention of marrying John.”

He saw his landlady laugh and her hand dismissively.

“I am conscious that I should probably thank my parents, too,” he continued, seeking out his mother and father. “Although the blame for any fault of mine – be it a case of nature of nurture – clearly sits at their door, they must have done something right for someone like Molly Hooper to want to marry me.”

He had a scolding come to him later, but he imagined given the occasion, his mother might be reasonably forgiving.

“John has already spoken so eloquently about his wife, Mary, but I would like to take this opportunity not only to reflect on how much she is missed, but to acknowledge how much her friendship – and her relationship with John – made me question my long-held views on matters of the heart. Mary Watson really was the best of us.”

Sherlock felt Molly’s hand slip into his again.

“But above all, I must thank my wife,” he said, noting how just the word caused a ridiculous smile to inveigle its way onto his face. “I did have a list, but…standing here in front of you now, Molly, it feels crass and insufficient. I hope then that it is enough to say that I have been at various turns amazed, fascinated, strengthened and humbled by your love - and I am endlessly grateful that I have the rest of my life to continue to be so. You…you’re not supposed to cry at that.”

He’d been concentrating so intently on the words that he hadn’t realised that there were tears rolling down Molly’s cheeks. She got to her feet, rolling her eyes.

“I’m happy, you twit!” she laughed, kissing him again.

“Ah, good,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Although I now see that I appear to have set off my mother, our landlady and half of Scotland Yard, too. Perhaps we should eat before everyone else loses control of their faculties?” 

00000000

Angelo had been as good as his word when it came to the menu, and two hours later Sherlock had consumed melon with prosciutto and figs, some manner of pasta, a stuffed leg of lamb and had sampled two (or possibly three) desserts. He was starting to think that perhaps he had overlooked the point of weddings - although there was now the slight risk that he wouldn’t be able to do much more on his wedding night than unbutton his trousers and lie very still. Not exactly what he had in mind.

Between serving at the tables, Angelo’s staff had taken it in turns to keep an eye on William as he toddled around the restaurant, testing out his new-found independence. Sated with spaghetti Bolognese and his very first experience of ice-cream, William’s head had started to loll with fatigue, and he was now fast asleep in his travel cot behind the top table, his bowtie clasped in his little fist.  

Rosie wasn’t far behind him, rubbing her eyes while Sherlock’s mother read stories to her on her lap. She livened up briefly when Molly asked her to help the two of them cut the wedding cake (chocolate, the very same type he and Molly had shared at the cake place on his birthday nearly two years ago), but she was too tired to want to eat any.

Sherlock watched Molly from across the room as she mingled with their guests; it was still hard to believe that the happiness that she was almost radiating was in large part because of him. Wonderful though the day had been, he couldn’t wait for the moment when they could be alone again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Lestrade. He wanted something, Sherlock could tell.

“So, erm, what do you know about this photographer?” he asked, flicking his gaze to the woman who was busy taking some final, casual shots of the guests.

“Vetted very thoroughly by Mycroft’s underlings,” Sherlock replied. “Not a concern.”

Lestrade cleared his throat and looked…what? Awkward? Hard to tell when the man had clearly had a skin-full of Italian lager.

“No, I mean…you know…what’s your read on her?”

Sherlock sighed - of course.

“Forty-two, divorced, two children – both girls - owns two Irish Setters and lives in Blackheath. Also enjoys country walks, European city breaks and Thai food.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened.

“’Ow’d you work all that out?”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock replied. “Tinder profile. I did my research.”

Lestrade’s face started to pull into a smile.

“So, she’s single and looking, then?” he said, with a note of elation. “Thai food, didya say?”

“Yes, but Molly is going to be  _very_  upset if your ham-fisted amorous advances jeopardise our wedding photography.”

It was very clear that Lestrade hadn’t heard a word of this response, as he was already snaking his way back through the guests and attempting to make a casual approach to the photographer as she packed up her equipment.

As Sherlock made his way over to Molly, he was intercepted by Mycroft.

“I was coming over to see you both,” he said. “Alicia and I are taking our leave shortly, but I wanted you to know that the telephone link-up was successful – our sister heard your wedding ceremony.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks. Molly had been keen to try to include Eurus in some way, however small; again, as with anything involving his sister, it was a risk, but he also knew how much it would be appreciated by his mother and father.

“If I should receive a response…?” Mycroft asked.

“Send it on to me,” Sherlock told him.

By this time, they had reached Molly, who slipped her arm around Sherlock’s waist and tipped her face upwards for a kiss. She looked tired but blissful, and it was a sight that made his heart hitch.

“Thank you for coming, Mycroft,” Molly smiled, kissing her new brother-in-law’s cheek.

“I couldn’t possibly have missed it,” he replied. “And Mr Barbieri has generously agreed to pass on his recipe for the chocolate hazelnut  _tartufo_  to my chef, so all in all a very agreeable day.” 

Mycroft paused to read a newly-arrived text message.

“Your car will be here in ten minutes,” he said.

Sherlock saw Molly turn to him with a mixture of suspicion and excitement.

“We’re going to Battersea,” Sherlock said, forcing his face into a neutral expression.

“And why are we going to Battersea?” Molly said, narrowing her eyes at him with definite suspicion this time. “We’re not going to the dogs’ home, are we?”

Sherlock snorted.

“No, Molly, we are not going to Battersea Dogs and Cats’ Home on the evening of our wedding,” he confirmed. “Although the question of a dog has very much slipped down the agenda lately, and it’s one we should definitely revisit very soon.”

Molly rolled her eyes, making it clear she was impressed with his stalling tactics.

“If you remember, Mrs Holmes,” Sherlock said finally, threading his arms around her waist. “The London Heliport is also in Battersea.”

He saw Molly’s eyes visibly widen, the excitement now clearly outweighing the scepticism.

“Why do we need a helicopter?”

“Because,” Sherlock replied, his lips grazing the shell of Molly’s ear. “We just got married, and we have approximately twenty-four hours alone together; I have no intention of wasting any of them being stuck in traffic.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - honeymoon.
> 
> Possible hotel porn, but still no actual porn :-)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock finally get their (very short) sex holiday...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to use this opportunity to say thank you to anyone who voted for my stories in the recent SAMFAs – I really appreciate it! (as well as being grateful to whoever made the nominations). Two of them (both of them prequels to this fic) took second and third place in their category, which was a fantastic surprise – and reassuring that I’m not just writing these for my own enjoyment! Anyway, you are all very lovely people. 
> 
> I’ll shut up now, and leave you to your reading :-)

She tried to play it nonchalant for a while, even as their bags were being loaded onto the helicopter (Sherlock’s advice to bring a warm coat on their honeymoon now made sense), and even as that helicopter was lifting into the air and taking flight out of London, south of the Thames.

“How long is the flight?” Molly asked, leaning as close to Sherlock as she could.

He shook his head, pointing to his ear-defenders and pretending he couldn’t hear her over the din, a very self-satisfied look on his face.

Molly reached into the front pocket of her trolley-case and pulled out her phone. Sherlock was watching her with wry amusement as she typed out a text.

 ** _About an hour_** , he texted in response.

They couldn’t make it across the Channel in an hour, so it had to be somewhere in England. They were definitely heading south west, though – she had recognized Wimbledon Common beneath them as they left the main sprawl of the City. Flying over Hampton Court Palace and its grounds had been breathtaking, and had also confirmed to Molly a clear flight path.

 ** _Devon?_**  she typed. It would be a push to get to even the easternmost borders of Devon in an hour, but…maybe.

**_Nope_ **

She eyed Sherlock and his deliberate attempts at inscrutability. Her husband was a very smug man when he wanted to be.

**_Isle of Wight?_ **

**_Too far_** , he replied.

She thought for a while, trying to recall GCSE Geography and what was likely in the right general direction.

**_Basingstoke?_ **

This time, Sherlock pulled a face.

**_Basingstoke?! Anyway, not far enough._ **

Molly sighed, tapping the screen of her phone with her finger as she racked her brain for inspiration. Her phone vibrated again.

 ** _Stop trying to guess and enjoy the flight_** , he texted. When she rolled her eyes, he continued typing again.

**_And you look beautiful in those headphones._ **

Molly snorted with laughter, accepting Sherlock’s hand as he reached across to take hers. He was right, though; she should enjoy the flight. This helicopter flight she  _could_  enjoy, and the fields of and villages of Surrey practically glowed in the low autumn sunlight.

She had always known their honeymoon would only be one night long, but she had assumed they would find a nice hotel in central London (Sherlock had certainly earned enough favours among hoteliers to justify quite a decent discount). Molly had no problem with it when Sherlock asked if she would allow him to organize something, but of course at that point she didn’t know that their entire  _wedding day_  was going to be a surprise – and while all of those surprises turned out to be good ones, a mystery flight to an unnamed destination was perhaps one more unknown than her nerves could take.

Molly tried to put any concerns about William to the back of her mind, too. Kissing him goodbye while he was still asleep wasn’t ideal, but waking him was unthinkable, and would have meant they would never had got away.

Her phone buzzed again. She had been so distracted she hadn’t even noticed Sherlock typing.

**_Molly, stop worrying about William. He will be fine._ **

Molly looked up at Sherlock, astonished, only to see him smiling that gorgeous, crinkly-eyed smile of his. This had nothing to do with his ability to deduce people, and everything to do with how close they had become over the past two years, and the fact that he  _knew_  her and recognised William-related anxiety a mile off.

She nodded in response; rationally, she knew it was true. Sadly, rationality rarely seemed applicable to parenthood.

 ** _My parents are not complete incompetents_** , he texted.  ** _Although I would prefer it if you now delete that text._**

Molly laughed, and was still laughing when Sherlock closed the distance between them and caught her lips in a kiss. When they last kissed in a helicopter (and how unlikely would that sentenced have sounded a couple of years ago?), they were kisses of desperate relief, kisses of reunion and happy hysteria. Now though; these were kisses of celebration, contentment and, above all – as Molly slipped her tongue through the seam of Sherlock’s slightly-parted lips - anticipation.

Some while later, as the orange light from the slowly setting sun was lighting up the clouds around them, Molly noticed from the helicopter that they were passing close to a heavily wooded area. That, coupled with the estuary she could see at a distance on the other side, gave a more precise destination.

 ** _The New Forest?_**  she texted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes indulgently.

 ** _Are we glamping?_**  she queried in a follow-up. He looked at her when he’d read it, and she grinned.

**_What in God’s name is that?_ **

Well, that – along with Sherlock’s aghast expression – answered that question.

The helicopter slowly descended, landing in what appeared to be a fallow field in a clearing between trees. A car was already waiting for them (all of this, apparently, a wedding present from Mycroft), and from there it was only a ten-minute drive until they turned from the main country road onto a long private driveway. Molly couldn’t fail to see the sign at the entrance to the drive: Chewton Glen Hotel and Spa. She turned to Sherlock; he  _knew_  she would be excited at this prospect, yet he was being infuriatingly cool about the whole thing, instead raising a casual eyebrow and gazing off into the middle-distance. There was a smile, though – she could see it lurking.

Finally, the car dropped them off at the entrance to a large red-brick building – eighteenth century, Molly guessed - which looked more like a large, genteel private home than a hotel, with its decorative green shutters and dense ivy growing up one side of the building. It wasn’t at all ostentatious or imposing, but there was definitely an exclusivity about it, in an English-country-garden sort of way.

Mycroft’s driver took their cases into the hotel lobby, and Molly and Sherlock still following behind, Molly forcing herself not to gawp quite so openly at how beautiful the whole place was. Although she couldn’t help but feel slightly strange, walking up to the desk still in her wedding dress, the concierge certainly acted as though everything was perfectly normal.

“Mr and Mrs Holmes?” the woman said with a smile.

It took Molly a second to react, before realising that this was the first time they’d been addressed in that way. She was bound to get used to it, although part of her hoped she never would.

“Congratulations on behalf of all of us at Chewton Glen,” the concierge added. “You should find a small token of our good wishes waiting for you in your room.”

It took all of Molly’s remaining self-control not to burst into the ridiculous grin; it was hard not to feel like a total imposter. As they waited, Sherlock slipped his arm around her waist, and Molly felt his thumb caressing her side as he pressed a kiss to her hairline. Wherever this room was, she hoped it wasn’t far away.

“If you would like to take a seat for a moment,” the concierge gestured. “One of my colleagues will take your luggage out to the golf buggy. You should be ready to go very shortly.”

“Go?”

Molly realised how bewildered her expression must have been when the woman looked up and smiled, clearly used to the sight of utterly bemused brides.

“Yes, madam. You and your husband are booked into the Treehouse Hideaway Suite; it’s just a few minutes away.”

The word ‘treehouse’ turned out to be both completely misleading and utterly perfect. The golf buggy deposited them about a third of a mile down a private track, overlooking the forest; there, suspended around thirty-five feet above the ground, was their accommodation for the night. Trying to feign casual insouciance was now completely pointless, and Molly no longer cared. Neither did she care that Sherlock now looked even more like the cat who had got the cream – or at least the cat who was very certain he was going to get the cream and more besides, once they were alone.

Molly felt Sherlock’s hand at the small of her back as they were shown up to the room – or rather, rooms. Molly tried not to gape too much as the young hotel clerk gave them a brief tour, leading them from the living room along a private, glass-panelled covered walkway that overlooked the forest, to the bedroom. Both main rooms were almost perfectly circular, with half of the wall space given over to floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the trees. On the glass coffee table in the centre of the living room, a bottle nestled in an ice-bucket.

As soon as the clerk left them alone, Molly turned around and gave Sherlock a sideways look, unable to keep the smile from her face.

“You’re pretty pleased with yourself right now, aren’t you?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“You like?” he said, casually.

She walked slowly, deliberately towards him, watching the smile playing at the corners of his mouth as she approached. Pausing for a moment to toy with the lapels of Sherlock’s perfectly-tailored jacket, Molly looped her arms around his neck, encouraging him closer.

“How could I not like?” she smiled. “It’s absolutely… _incredible_ , magical even. Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome,” Sherlock replied, his hands caressing her waist through the bodice of her dress. “I always wanted a treehouse when I was a child; even went as far as drawing out my own design. Now that I’ve seen this place, I‘m inclined to think I wasn’t aiming high enough.”

Molly smiled.

“I’m guessing you wouldn’t have wanted girls in your treehouse?”

Sherlock snorted.

“We both know that I was wrong about that sort of thing for a  _very_  long time.”

Molly raised her eyebrows; she would never get sick of looking into those incredible eyes of his and seeing her own reflection.

“In fairness, you’ve made up for lost time pretty well,” she grinned.

She pushed herself up on her toes just far enough to brush her lips against Sherlock’s; she heard a low hum of approval as he added some gentle pressure to the kiss. But then she felt him smile against her mouth.

“We’re married,” he said quietly, their faces still a breath apart.

Molly nodded, biting down on her bottom lip.

“It feels… _unbelievably_  good,” he added, with a short laugh, his expression a mixture of marvel and delight.

“Yes,” she smiled, her fingers playing with the curls at the back of his neck. “It does.”

“There was, ah, one thing that we omitted to do, though,” Sherlock said, resting his forehead against hers.

Molly sniggered.

“I’d counted on doing that pretty soon.”

“Well, yes,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Believe me, Molly, I’m counting on it too. But I was actually referring to the traditional first dance.”

It was true, although that fact that passed Molly by; it wasn’t as though the rest of the day had strictly adhered with tradition (aside from those vital elements), and wonderful though the reception had been, the space wasn’t exactly ideal for dancing. The last – the only - time she and Sherlock had really danced together was the night she came home from her hen do, when he had used his waltzing prowess to deftly convey her to their bedroom. If ever there was a time for a repeat performance, it was now.

Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and once he’d found what he was looking for, he set it down on the coffee table. After a moment’s pause, music began to play – the same music that welcomed Molly to their wedding ceremony, the piece he had composed.

Suddenly adopting a very serious pose – so serious it caused Molly to giggle again – Sherlock arranged one hand at her waist, and with his other, took Molly’s. But it was not a waltz this time; gone was any formality and instead their clasped hands were held between their bodies, Molly’s free hand resting on his shoulder. It was a slow, natural sway, and it was impossible to tear herself away from his gaze.

Sherlock raised Molly’s hand to his lips, and for a second she saw his wedding ring catch the evening sunlight. Proof once again that this wasn’t one long, extended fever dream.

Their movement provided Molly with her first real view of the deck that ran in front of the windows, taking in the plush outdoor seating and daybeds and-

“Sherlock,” she whispered, glancing up at him with what she knew to be a ridiculously giddy smile. “Do we have a hot tub?”

“Yes, I believe so,” he replied, clearly amused by her reaction.

“You told me to bring my winter coat on this trip, but you didn’t think to mention a bikini?”

At this, she saw him smirk.

“I  _could_  have done,” he replied. “But then I would have been going against my own interests. And I have no intention of letting my own lack of swimming attire stand in  _my_  way.”

“Skinny-dipping?” Molly replied, caught between her natural inclination to be law-abiding and the quite spectacular opportunity that seemed to be presenting itself.

 “We’re not overlooked, if that’s your concern, Molly,” he replied airily. “And it’s hardly skinny-dipping when you’re submerged up to your neck. At least, I believe that’s the protocol of the so-called hot tub – this will be my first time.”

 Molly bit down on her lip.

 “Well, at least with this we can be more certain it  _is_  your first time.”

Sherlock chuckled, taking her into his arms more closely and dipping his head to kiss Molly once more. Again, it started chastely, gently tasting her, but Molly felt the moment he shifted gear. Sherlock slanted his mouth over hers, letting go of her hand so that he could instead cradle her jaw, dancing now all but forgotten. Molly responded, struck by how something now so familiar could still make her whole body thrum with electricity, as she felt Sherlock’s grip on her waist tighten.

They realised at the same moment that the music had stopped. Pulling away a little, Sherlock blinked – his eyes now pools of inky black - and cleared his throat.

“I...ah…do you want to have a look at the rest of the suite?” he asked. “Or do you…?”

“Yes,” Molly smiled, without hesitation. “That.”

Letting go of her, Sherlock took two strides towards the table and very purposefully switched off his phone. Never was there a clearer message.

The next thing Molly knew, Sherlock had swept her up into his arms.

“I’m afraid I’m contractually obliged to do this,” he said, smiling, as she kicked off her shoes. 

Molly barely had time to wrap her arms around his neck to balance herself before Sherlock started for the bedroom. By the time they got there (now wasn’t the time to fully appreciate the lovely covered walkway), they were kissing more intently, and Molly felt a rush of breath escape her as Sherlock set her down on the bed. He just had time to pop his jacket button before she pulled him down with her, slipping her fingers under his lapels and over his shoulders, encouraging him to shuck his jacket.

She sensed his hands fumbling for purchase on the bed, and she giggled as he broke away for a moment with a frustrated growl, to rid the bed of a large number of decorative cushions. Once done, Sherlock dipped his head again, languidly, seeking Molly’s lips again, looking as though he was planning to savour every single moment.

“Wait a sec,” Molly murmured. Something was digging into her back.

“What now?” Sherlock sighed, with a note of irritation.

“Hand-made Belgian chocolates,” she said, reading from the small white box she had located at the base of her spine. They must have been arranged on one of the many discarded cushions.

“It’s as though they’re actively preventing their guests from having sex,” he commented, tossing the box onto the bedside table. “Any other hazards back there?”

“Mm-mm,” she replied, shaking her head and lifting herself off the bed just far enough to entice him back into her arms.

“Good,” Sherlock replied, toeing out of his shoes. “Because we have important marriage-consummation business to attend to.”

As he hovered above her, Molly framed his face with her hands, his stubble grazing the pads of her fingers; Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, as he sometimes did, revelling in her touch. She arched up to catch his lips with hers, and he responded with a little more pressure, humming approvingly as Molly started to unbutton his crisp, white shirt, revealing more and more of that beautiful, alabaster skin. Without breaking their kiss, Sherlock tugged the shirt out of his trousers, leaving it hanging open so that Molly could sweep her hands underneath it, bringing them to rest on the small of his back, urging him closer.

Sherlock moved the strap of her dress to one side, so he could place a kiss on her bare shoulder. He moved inwards, his lips marking a trail to her neck, fingers still toying with the dress strap.

“Molly, I might need some help with this,” he murmured, his deep voice vibrating against her skin. “Beautiful though it undoubtedly is, I’ve been thinking about its removal since we left the park.”

Molly giggled, and he helped her to sit upright, wasting no time in reaching behind her to slowly lower the zip on her dress and slip the straps from her shoulders. She wiggled out of her dress, and was surprised when Sherlock took it from her, folding it carefully – almost reverently – and placing it on the nearby chair. A far cry from the usual haphazard garment-flinging that usually went on in their bedroom.

She watched as he sat back, saw him swallow as he took in what was in front of him. Molly bit down on a smile, brimming with happiness that she was provoking this response.

“There are…new,” Sherlock said, a little dumbly.

Molly nodded.

“It’s traditional,” she replied, smiling. “You know - wedding underwear.”

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t proper bridal lingerie. She had certainly browsed the complicated arrangements of elaborate lace and suspenders – Meena had insisted on it, for one thing - but it had all looked too fussy and quite frankly, not very comfortable. In fact, some of it looked so laughably complicated that Molly wasn’t convinced that either she or Sherlock would be able to find her way out of it without using of a pair of garden shears. Lingerie designers probably didn’t think about the mothers who’d be chasing after toddlers on their wedding day.

In the end, Molly had chosen a simple set in rose pink silk, with a white lace trim – and from the look on Sherlock’s face, and the rise and fall of his chest, he wasn’t disappointed. In fact, it took him a few moments to recover himself and regroup.

“You look…incredible,” he breathed.

Sherlock encouraged her back against the pillows, and she watched him apply the same attention he had given to her dress to carefully rolling her sheer hold-ups down her legs. It was the first time, Molly realised, that she had worn anything remotely like this for him – even when she dressed up for the occasional ( _very_  occasional) night out, occurrences of matching underwear happened by sheer chance.

Hold-ups cast aside, Sherlock slowly ran his hands from her ankles up to her thighs, leaning in to kiss her again. Molly’s fingers found his sides, his stomach, caressing the skin over the soft flesh and taut muscles; Sherlock no longer had the gaunt, self-neglected look of the man who got her pregnant, and he was even more ridiculously gorgeous for it. With a gentle, deliberate motion, he removed the clip in her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders.

The shirt was now just an encumbrance, and Molly pushed it insistently off Sherlock’s shoulders, feeling him chuckle against her mouth. She knew he loved it when she started to get impatient, but Molly felt she was hardly to blame for that. Sherlock’s fingers smoothed over the silk of her bra, his thumb running over the top of the cup; at the same time, Molly could feel his own insistence, familiar and always, always welcome.

She reached between them until she found the button of his trousers, twisting it free. They broke the kiss long enough for Molly to slide both hands over his arse, pushing the trousers down at the same time. There was no smooth and graceful way for a man to climb out of his trousers, but Sherlock had at least perfected a quick and fairly dignified method. When he sat up, Molly couldn’t help but notice – well,  _that_ , yes, obviously, but also that she wasn’t the only one who’d been underwear shopping.

“Very nice,” she said, approvingly.

He was wearing boxer trunks, as he usually did, but instead of his usual black or white, these ones were a dusky sapphire blue. Molly wondered whether he might have actually asked the shop assistant for pants that matched his eyes.

“Thought I would try something,” he said, by way of explanation.

“It works,” she grinned.

“Premium Supima cotton,” he added, a note of pride at his choice. “Naturally softer.”

That sounded like an invitation. Molly pulled him nearer so that she could test this theory with her hands.

“Good choice,” she whispered, hooking a finger inside his waistband. “Though you’re going to have to come closer, just to be sure.”

Sherlock shifted up the bed, bracing his arms on either side of her again, and leaning down to kiss her, with what now felt like more urgent purpose. Molly matched him kiss for kiss, one hand snaking over Sherlock’s shoulder and the other around his lean waist, pulling him even closer until he was firmly settled in the cradle of her legs.  _There_.  _That_  feeling.  _Dear God,_ he was going to wreak such devastation on her tonight.

Sherlock chuckled softly against her mouth, and Molly realised that the low moan she heard must have come from her. He took hold of her leg and hooked it over his hip, and the resulting increase in pressure and friction – aided by what was clearly very provocative wriggling on Sherlock’s part – sent a delicious ache of pleasure to Molly’s core.

She could feel the perfect symmetry of their chests rising and falling, her heartbeat pinned up against his, separated by so little.

"Sherlock," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath as she broke the kiss.

He blinked, waiting. Molly brought her hand to rest on his pectoral, covering that most precious, fragile, closely-guarded of organs. 

"I love you.”

She couldn't let the moment go by without saying it, today of all days.

Sighing, his eyelids flickering shut, Sherlock lowered his forehead to rest against hers.

"I love you, too, Molly," he said in return. “More than ever.”

Molly brought her hand up to cup his jaw, brushing his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb.

“Well then, Mr Holmes,” she whispered, tracing her fingers up and down his side. “What are you waiting for?”

00000000000

Molly hauled Sherlock’s arm around her middle, then resettled her cheek against his chest; his heart was still hammering, his breath still ragged, but she could almost feel the smile on his face.

“I heartily approve of married sex,” he said finally, his deep voice rumbling through his chest.

Molly sniggered.

“Good,” she replied. “Because there isn’t going to be any other kind from now on.”

He laughed at that, too, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Molly looked at her hand, where it rested on Sherlock’s chest, and it suddenly made her remember something. She lifted herself up far enough to free her hands, twisting her new ring off her finger.

“You had it engraved?” she said, before taking a look.

“Mm-hm,” Sherlock replied, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I…hadn’t intended to, but then…well, I hope you don’t mind.”

She held the ring up to catch the last of the evening light, turning it as her gaze took in the collection of symbols; hexagons and circles connected by short lines, in precise arrangements.

“Dopamine...seratonin…oxytocin,” she whispered, her face breaking into a smile.

“The chemical formula for love,” Sherlock replied. “Roughly speaking.”

Molly felt a sharp prick of tears.

“Sherlock, how did you even-?”

“I know a very skilled goldsmith,” he replied. “Had him do the same engraving on mine.”

Molly looked again at her ring, at the tiny, intricate detail, before sliding back, onto her finger where it belonged. She scooted up the bed so she could quickly press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, but he held her there, eager to draw it out for longer. When they finally moved apart, they were face to face on their sides, and Sherlock wrapped his arm around her middle again.

“Molly…did you really tell your friend you were going to marry me on the day we first met?”

His tone was oddly serious, and Molly couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s just one of those things people say,” she replied.

“Is it?”

“Yeah, you know,” she continued, immediately recognising that he probably _didn’t_ know. “It had been ages since I’d met anyone who really interested me, and then you turn up in the morgue out of the blue. And you were different and clever and…looked the way you look and…well, I fancied you. A lot.”

“Hmm,” he said, his brow furrowing. “I was probably an utter arsehole, though, wasn’t I?”

Molly giggled.

“Yes,” she replied. “But more to Greg than to me, on that occasion. I think you might have winked at me.”

Sherlock looked at her incredulously.

“I mean, probably because you were hoping for a future favour, but I didn’t know that at the time I spoke to Meena,” Molly explained.

They lay there in silence for a few moments longer, until the quiet was interrupted by the distinct sound of a growling stomach.

“Me or you?” Sherlock queried.

“Me,” Molly grinned. “God, I could just eat some of that wedding cake now.”

“Really?” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

Before Molly could answer, he had extricated himself from her arms and rolled out of bed. She watched his bare-naked arse disappear out of the room and down the covered walkway (thank God the forest was in private grounds), and when he returned a few minutes later, Sherlock was carrying a jug of water, two forks and a small cardboard carton.

“That isn’t…?”

“Wedding cake,” he confirmed, setting the box down on the bed. “I had Angelo box some up for us. Couldn’t let Mycroft have it all.”

Molly beckoned him back onto the bed, hooking an arm around his neck to bring him in for a kiss.

“I did tell you how much I love you, right?” she grinned.

She knew she should probably take a shower first, but that thought was only fleeting before they were both tucking into the cake, straight from the box. When they had shared an identical cake at the cake place over two years ago, she had had to coax Sherlock to eat his share – not so, this time.

The shower was definitely worth waiting for, though; the marble bathroom and walk-in shower was a far cry from the slightly temperamental over-the-bath shower at Baker Street, as were the his-and-hers sinks. More incredible was the free-standing bath with a direct view out onto the forest – she didn’t care how long they had left of this honeymoon, she was _definitely_ going in that bath, and taking Sherlock with her if he’d agree to it.

As it turned out, the bath had to wait, because while she was finishing in the bathroom, Sherlock had set the hot-tub off to fill and had started a fire in the log-burner. He was now standing stark naked in the living room, holding the bottle of complimentary champagne. _Pinch me now_ , Molly grinned to herself.

“Molly, you’ve put on clothes,” he frowned. “You need to correct that.”

An hour later, and after nearly falling asleep on the sofa in the living room, they eventually took themselves to bed. Molly hadn’t slept so solidly for a long time – at least since Will had been born – but wasn’t surprised when her body-clock woke her early, in time for the last minutes of a stunning autumn sunrise. Sherlock woke a short time later, nuzzling into her and, on establishing that breakfast wouldn’t arrive for another hour, they made love again.

 A generous breakfast hamper was delivered to the suite, and while Sherlock unpacked everything onto the table, Molly leafed through the hotel brochure.

“Sherlock, do you realise how big this place is?” she asked, looking at a printed map of the estate.

“Yes. One hundred and thirty acres,” he replied, peering at the label on a small jar of jam.

“Can we go for a walk later?” Molly asked. “The gardens look amazing.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I was rather hoping that I could remain naked for the remainder of our honeymoon,” he said. “And that you would join me in that.”

“Apparently, there are fifty working beehives…” Molly added, adopting a casual air.

“Well, perhaps a short walk wouldn’t waste too much time,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat.

While they were eating, Molly heard Sherlock’s phone buzz on the counter in the kitchenette. He glanced over at it momentarily, before returning to his coffee.

“You can check it, I don’t mind,” Molly smiled.

He padded over to the counter and picked up the phone; she immediately saw his brow furrow.

“It’s from Mycroft,” he said, sitting back down beside her. “Or rather from our sister, via Mycroft.”

Molly leaned across to look at the screen and recognised that there was an audio file attached to the email Sherlock had opened.

“Shall…shall I play it?” he asked. “I can listen to it later, if you prefer.”

Molly shook her head, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder and winding her arm around his.

“Play it,” she told him.

The room slowly filled with the sound of Eurus Holmes’ latest composition. Molly was starting to be able to recognise the particular qualities that distinguished her music from Sherlock’s; although Sherlock’s was accomplished and always exquisite, Eurus played the violin as though it was part of herself – she gave herself over to it entirely. Although completely original, the music contained allusions to works Molly recognised; pieces of celebration, joy, hope. She also recognised a brief refrain from the composition Eurus had written for William’s birth.

When the music ended, Molly could see that Sherlock was still reflecting on what he had heard.

“That’s quite a wedding present,” she ventured, quietly.

He nodded.

“I can only conclude that the visit you paid to Eurus had an entirely positive effect,” he replied, slowly placing his phone down on the coffee table.

“We keeping trying,” Molly said, suddenly feeling a much deeper sense of combined effort. “We don’t give up.”

Sherlock nodded again, and sat back slightly so he could stretch his arm around Molly’s shoulder, pulling her to him and placing a kiss in her hair. As they sat here, another buzz emanated from Sherlock’s phone, startling them slightly. Molly assumed it must be a follow-up from Mycroft, but when Sherlock double-tapped the alert, it opened up the phone’s video player. In front of them was their son, standing and holding onto the arm of the sofa in Baker Street; at the encouragement of an off-camera Wanda Holmes, William made a sudden, delighted run for Sherlock’s chair, where Sherlock’s father was waiting for him. Molly saw Timothy Holmes point, and, hesitating only for a moment, William toddled across to John’s old chair, where – it seemed – a beaker of milk and a snack had been left as bait. A round of applause broke out in the video, before it cut out.

Molly wiped a tear from her eye.

“I don’t know what’s more remarkable,” Sherlock said. “William’s swift progress, or the fact that my mother knows how to use the video function on her phone.”

Molly elbowed him gently in the ribs.

“Maybe…maybe we should head off a bit early?” she said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a soft laugh.

“I miss him, too, Molly,” he replied. “But for God’s sake, this honeymoon is short enough as it is. I still have big plans involving sex and beehives – although, to be clear, they are entirely separate activities.”

Molly giggled, and moved from the sofa cushion to straddle Sherlock’s lap. Immediately, long fingers flexed around her lips.

“The beehives will still be there later, right?” she smiled, before leaning down to kiss him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, this is a real hotel (I don't have the imagination to think up somewhere so amazing) - well worth looking up, and the thing about the 50 beehives is genuine, too! :-D


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Wiggins might be on to something...

The honeymoon itself may have been short, but there had definitely been a prolonged honeymoon period. Decent cases had been conveniently light on the ground in the fortnight following the wedding, and Sherlock was adamant that he wasn’t accepting anything less than an eight from Lestrade when there was magnificent post-wedding shagging to be enjoyed. Plus, they needed to take advantage of it while they could, given that Molly’s maternity leave was coming to an end in a fortnight, and she would no longer be around in the daytime to partake in spontaneous marital relations when William was asleep.

It depressed Sherlock slightly to think of it - he had started to take Molly’s presence at home for granted – but at the same time he knew that she was eager to get back to the job she loved. Probably a good thing anyway, though, because sex was very distracting – even the  _possibility_  of sex was distracting, and Sherlock tended to find that he couldn’t concentrate on his work very effectively when they were in the flat together. Even when he was upstairs in his little lab and Molly was down in the living room with William.

_God, this is what it must feel like to be John. Or quite possibly any other man - well, except Mycroft. Oh God, surely not Mycroft._

William had, helpfully, been sleeping during the day more than usual, which Molly put down to the fact that now, when he was awake, he never stopped moving. It was only when they returned from honeymoon that they discovered that although 221B was now fairly baby-proof, it clearly wasn’t toddler proof – and William’s walking and climbing abilities were a lethal combination.  And just because he was an early walker, it apparently didn’t mean that he was particularly  _good_  at it – his ambition definitely outstripped his technique. Sherlock found that he spent much of the day putting his son the right way up again, trying to prevent furniture-inflicted injury or soothing William when he wasn’t quick enough to avert said injury.

Sherlock was deeply aware that in a couple of weeks’ time, he was going to become, effectively, a house-husband for two days a week. He wasn’t sure what frightened him more – the burden of responsibility on those days, or the fear that those days were going to exhaust him so much that his brain was going to be utterly useless on the other days. When he thought about it, it was probably a good thing that Molly only cut open  _dead_  people for a living - the thought of an actual surgeon suffering from sleep-deprivation and toddler-exhaustion was one short step from a medical negligence lawsuit.

If there was any downside to the invigorating and creative sex they’d been having, it was that on some days it made Sherlock feel every one of his forty-one years. He’d actually tweaked a muscle in the back of his thigh a couple of days ago, which made him wonder whether there was an age at which you had to do warm-ups before sex (something to ask John, maybe, if a suitable moment arose). All of this reminded him – not without a shudder – that his parents, of course, were considerably younger than this when he was born. What they might have been getting up to when he or Mycroft weren't around didn't bear thinking about.

The honeymoon period had come to an abrupt end when Rosie had kindly brought a virus home from her childminder’s, which swept through 221 like an unstoppable force. First John, then Sherlock, then William, and finally Molly. The only person to escape it entirely was Mrs Hudson. Molly had dismissed Sherlock’s suggestion that her ‘herbal soothers’ might be providing some kind of immunity, but it seemed very suspicious. With that in mind, it also seemed suspect that it was only since giving up the cigs that  _he_  started to succumb to illness – Molly’s response to that was that he was welcome to start smoking again if he didn’t mind sleeping on the sofa.

The result of all this was when a very promising case (a probable nine) finally came his way, Molly was still in a post-viral state, exhausted by mid-afternoon and still with no appetite. She had insisted that she was fine and could manage, and Hudders had assured him she could help out with William if needed, so Sherlock had corralled John on a trip to the north of England. But what he had surmised would take no longer than a day actually turned out to be a little more complex than expected; the twin room in the B&B with a snoring, post-viral John was a far-cry from the Treehouse Hideaway Suite with his wife (he still hadn’t stopped being fascinated with the ring on his left hand).

When Sherlock realised that the case was going to drag into a third day, he had to take some action. When he had made a Skype call to say goodnight to William, it was clear that Molly – despite her attempts to play it down - was still unwell, and this struck to the very heart of his life’s conundrum; the need to be there with her,  _for_  her, versus the pull and the thrill of the work. As soon as he’d finished speaking to her, he put in another call.

When he and John finally arrived back at Baker Street late the next afternoon, Sherlock was surprised to hear the murmur of two adult voices coming from the upstairs flat as he climbed the stairs, one of them Molly’s and the other – the one doing less of the talking - undoubtedly male. He silently put down his overnight bag and paused at the door, holding his breath so that he could better listen; he couldn’t be too careful when it came to Molly and William’s safety, and Sherlock steeled himself accordingly. But then his eye was drawn by a scattering of something distinctive on the floor by his right foot; he crouched down and swept his finger over the floorboard, rolling the substance between thumb and finger, and inhaling the musty tang. He now knew exactly who was there.

 “Molly, I’m back,” Sherlock said, aware that this was the very definition of stating the obvious.

Molly emerged from the kitchen, wiping damp hands on her jeans. He met her halfway, bending to kiss her, although at that moment she looked too fragile to withstand being hoisted into the air. She really did look pale – too pale – and those lovely dark eyes were like hollows.

“William asleep?” Sherlock asked, kissing the tip of her nose.

“Mm,” Molly nodded. “Need to wake him up soon.”

“I’ll get him shortly,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know,” she began. “Not too bad.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

“Molly…”

“A bit shit, actually,” she admitted. “But we, um, we’ve got a guest.”

“Hello, Wiggins!” Sherlock called, still out of view of their guest.

“’O’wd you know I was ‘ere?” the younger man called back from the kitchen.

Sherlock put his arm around Molly’s shoulder and walked them both around the corner into the kitchen. Bill Wiggins was sitting up at the table, a fork in his hand, poised over a large piece of chocolate wedding cake (which Molly had presumably retrieved from the freezer). Beside the cake plate was a large mug of tea.

 “Come on, Billy, how do you think?” Sherlock challenged.

The corners of Wiggins’ mouth curled down and his eyebrows furrowed as he gave it some thought. He was usually much better than this, had been showing some real promise.

“Dunno,” he said eventually. “Shoe-prints?”

“Mrs Hudson  _is_  rather haphazard with the vacuuming sometimes, but she generally wouldn’t allow dust to build up to a level sufficient to allow shoe-prints,” Sherlock replied. “You were going to roll a cigarette before you got here, but worried that Molly wouldn’t like you bringing the smell into the flat – particularly with a baby around – so you changed your mind and restored your tobacco and papers to your jacket pocket. Only, a small amount of rolling tobacco dropped from your pocket at the top of the stairs. I know ash. Golden Virginia is your brand of choice, is it not?”

“Yeah...” Wiggins replied, screwing up his nose slightly in disbelief. “Sorry fer the mess.”

Molly waved away his apology.

“Billy brought some groceries,” she said. “Which was really kind. I couldn’t have faced the supermarket today.”

“Sherlock asked me,” Wiggins said, resuming the eating of his cake. “S’no problem. I mean, you must feel ‘orrible.”

Sherlock saw Molly frown slightly, puzzled.

“Um, yeah, I do…a bit,” she replied. “Anyway, it was lovely. Thank you.”

“I mean, you don’t ‘ave to eat that stuff now, if you’re not feelin’ well,” Wiggins continued, shovelling in another mouthful of dessert. “I bought stuff that’ll last fer ages. This cake is amazin’ – didya make it, Missus?”

“No, Wiggins, you’re currently eating the last of our wedding cake,” Sherlock informed him. “But go on, be our guest.”

“Cheers,” Wiggins replied, completely missing the note of resigned martyrdom that Sherlock had tried to inject into his words.

Sherlock glanced down at Molly, who was nursing – but not drinking – a very weak-looking mug of tea. God, if she was contemplating tea of that ilk, she definitely needed to go to bed as soon as earthly possible.

“I’m a little surprised to find you still here, actually, Billy,” he said, finally getting around to taking off his coat and laying it across the back of John’s chair. “I’d envisaged this more of a” – he waved his hand – “drop-off thing.”

Sherlock suspected that Molly was still a little uneasy at having Wiggins around the place, especially where William was concerned - and given his status as Sherlock’s former supplier and chemist. At Sherlock’s comment, Wiggins looked a little apologetic and also a little embarrassed, his eyes flitting from Sherlock to Molly, and then back again. Strangely, Sherlock couldn’t deduce why.

“Well, I know,” Wiggins replied. “An’ that’s what I thought I’d be doin’, but then I knew you were on yer way ‘ome, and your Missus looked so peaky that I didn’t like to leave ‘er by ‘erself. I mean, in her condition, and everythin’.”

Sherlock had uttered the first syllable of his reply before he stopped dead. Automatically, he searched for Molly’s gaze and saw that she was reacting with similar puzzlement.

“’Her condition’?” Sherlock repeated. “What condition would that be?”

Wiggins glanced between the two of them again, and gave a short burst of nervous, nasal laughter.

“Yer know - up the duff,” he said, before apparently checking himself. “Sorry, Missus…er…I mean, in the, er, the family way.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Wiggins, Molly isn’t pregnant; she is in the latter stages of a virus. We’ve all had it. In fact, if you’re particularly unlucky, by tomorrow you might have it, too.”

But something was tickling the back of his brain. One look at Molly told him she now only had one thing on her mind, but was trying to keep that one thing well-buried.

“What?” Wiggins asked, incredulously. “You mean she’s – you’re  _not_?”

“No,” Molly replied, lips pinching together.

“Oh,” he said, a now almost comically-confused expression on his face. “I coulda sworn…I mean, when I got ‘ere and saw ‘ow you looked, an’ you told me ‘ow you were feelin’…an’ I knew that ‘e’s been tryin’ to knock you up again, and then when ‘e  asked me to check on ya cos you was sick…well, it just made sense. Thought it did, anyways.”

“We can’t be correct with every single deduction,” Sherlock replied, unsure why the pace of his heart seemed to have increased, his hands suddenly feeling noticeably warmer.

“Nah, nah, listen,” Wiggins continued. “My sister ‘as ‘ad four little ‘uns and she looked and felt crap for the first three months, so I know what it looks like - exactly like you do, Missus. oh sorry, I didn’t mean t’say that you look like crap, but, you know…”

Sherlock swallowed.

“Molly will be fine in a few days, thank you, Billy,” he said, as the younger man took the hint and got to his feet, pausing to drain his mug of tea first. “I can take it from here.”

Wiggins shrugged into his slightly grimy jacket, obliviously shedding more tobacco onto the floor.

“You want me to pick up one of them test things?” he asked, looking between Molly and Sherlock. “They sell  _them_  at the supermarket, an’ all. I don’t mind, honest.”

“That’s really kind,” Molly said, fingers pulling at the hem of her sweatshirt. “But honestly, it’s fine. Thanks again for the shopping.”

“S’okay,” Wiggins replied, shrugging and heading for the door. “But ginger’s meant to be good for mornin’ sickness. Peppermint tea, too. Y'know, just sayin’.”

“Yeeeess, thank you,” Sherlock said, unfolding his wallet and handing Wiggins a small sheaf of notes. “We  _have_  had a baby before, remember?”

When the door closed, Sherlock turned back to face Molly, and for several moments they stood there in a slightly awkward silence. His mouth felt dry, and his heartrate still hadn’t settled.

“That was…um…yeah,” Molly began, laughing nervously.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “Can’t fault his enthusiasm, I suppose. For deductive reasoning, I mean.”

“Yeah, I suppose it was a perfectly reasonable conclusion to reach,” she added, quickly. “If you look at it objectively.”

There was another silence, and Sherlock tried to frantically do the maths in his head. Why couldn’t he remember? This wouldn’t have happened if Molly had only allowed him to use that fertility app.

He cleared his throat quietly.

“Molly, you don’t think…?”

“What?” she said quickly. “You mean…?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, dismissively. “Of course not.”

This was ludicrous. They were two intelligent adults who had been actively been trying to conceive a child – for God’s sake, it had been all he could think about for the past three months. But, a tiny part of his brain conceded, they were also two adults who had been somewhat preoccupied by other things over the past few weeks.

“How…how long since…?” he ventured, trying to maintain a neutral expression.

“I don’t…I can’t actually remember…I’d have to work it out,” Molly replied, swallowing. “I mean, it’s possible, with everything that’s been going on, that I…”

Sherlock nodded, taking this in. He took a deep breath.

“Do you think you should…I mean, do you think it might be worth…?”

At this, Molly’s head snapped up, and when she looked at him head-on, Sherlock could see in her eyes exactly the tumult of emotions he, too, was feeling - excitement, hope, fear.

“We could,” she said, nodding. “I mean, I don’t have one, so I  _would_  have to go to the chemist’s, but-”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than Sherlock dashed forward, kissed her quickly on the forehead and headed straight for the bedroom, ignoring the sharp pain in his elbow from hitting the doorframe in his haste. Less than a minute later, he was back in the living room in front of Molly, his hands outstretched.

Molly's stare travelled from him to what he was offering her, and she raised her eyebrows.

“Wow,” she said, swallowing. “That’s…you’ve quite a selection you’ve got there. I really  _didn’t_  need to go to the chemist’s.”

The corners of her mouth were twitching into a smile.

“It’s good to have choice,” he replied, his words coming out as an odd squeak.

“How long…” Molly began, browsing the rectangular boxes on display. “How long have you had these, Sherlock?”

Suddenly, he felt a little foolish and flustered, which was probably about right considering he was now basically an idiot holding seven different varieties of pregnancy test. God, he hoped Molly didn’t think he’d been somehow testing her all these months without her knowledge?

“I wanted us to be prepared?” he offered, not intending it to sound as much like a question as it did. “So…will you do it?”

“Now?”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock replied. “I mean, unless you need to drink some more tea first.”

Molly flashed him a nervous smile, and nodded. Her hand hovered over his until she settled on one of the packets. Before she could lower her hand, Sherlock caught it; she looked up at him, and he stroked his thumb across the pulse point of her wrist.

“Molly, is…is this okay?”

He saw her take a deep breath, before allowing a tentative smile to break through.

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s…of course it is! I just…if it isn’t, Sherlock, if it turns out not to be-”

“Then we keep trying,” he said, gently taking hold of her elbow to bring her closer to him. “I don’t particularly have a problem with that.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, and Molly grinned.

“Okay,” she said, exhaling as though steeling herself. “Okay. Right. Well, I won’t be long…maybe you could, um, check on William while you’re waiting?”

Sherlock blinked.

“I…I was hoping I could be there, too.”

That earned him a very strange look from Molly, which caused a rush of warmth to his cheeks. He probably needed to elaborate.

“Molly, when you found out you were pregnant with William, I wasn’t there,” he said. “In fact, while you were taking the test, I was probably standing in this very room, feeling very smug, congratulating myself on the successful execution of my ‘plan’. I…I’ve thought about that a lot over the past two years, and it’s something I regret deeply. You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone – particularly because on that occasion you were probably more anxious than thrilled. And, in addition, I deprived myself of that experience; it wasn’t until you came to tell me you were pregnant that I realised what I had missed. I…I don’t want to miss it again.”

Molly walked herself into his arms, pressing her cheek against his chest.

“If it’s good news, we celebrate together,” Sherlock murmured. “But if it isn’t, well…we share that, too.”

He felt Molly nod against his chest, before tipping her chin up to look at him.

“’Kay,” she whispered. “But you wait outside while I pee on the stick. I think there’s something to be said for maintaining a bit of mystery in a relationship.”

Sherlock snorted. As Molly headed down to the hallway to the bathroom, her quietly ascended the stairs to their son’s bedroom. He eased open the door a foot or so, far enough to see that William was still fast asleep on his back, one fist raised to his mouth. He had kicked off his blankets, so Sherlock reached into the cot to tuck them around him again. He stood there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his little boy’s chest. Life was unrecognisable now compared to how it was two years ago…and now it might be about to change again.

By the time he had padded downstairs, the bathroom door was open and Molly was sitting on the closed toilet lid, her arms tightly folded around her middle. Sherlock’s eyes were immediately drawn to the sink, where not one but seven white plastic sticks were fanned out along the edge.

“Thought we may as well be scientific about it,” Molly said, smiling up at him.

Sherlock lowered himself to perch on the side of the bath to keep vigil.

“How long…?” Sherlock asked, not daring to look too closely at the tests yet.

“They mostly recommend ten minutes,” she replied “Maybe…maybe we should go and do something? You know, while we wait.”

Sherlock nodded, unsure what he could possibly concentrate on at a time like this.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked eventually. She still looked pale and washed-out; whatever the outcome of the next few minutes, the only place Molly was going to after this was bed – he would insist.

Molly shook her head.  

 “What if Billy turns out to be right?” she smiled. “How will you live that one down?”

Sherlock smiled, reaching across to take Molly’s hand.

“If he does turn out to be right, he can hold it over me for as long as he pleases,” he said. “It will be a very tiny, insignificant price to pay.”

God, it really was the longest ten minutes in history. Finally, he saw Molly tip her wrist to check her watch, before looking up at him. Sherlock swallowed, nodded to himself. He felt Molly’s fingers reach for his again as they both stood up far enough to get an aerial view of the seven plastic prophets of their future. 

It was only then that Sherlock realised he didn’t even know what he was looking for. All of those boxes of tests, and he’d never once read any of the instructions.

“What? What do they mean?” he stammered. “They’re all showing two lines - what do two lines mean? Is that good?”

And as soon as he saw the look on Molly’s face, he knew the truth. Her eyes were suddenly alight, and her hand went to her mouth.

“Yes,” she said, quietly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “It’s good.”

“Wait a minute!” Sherlock said, his hand trembling as he snatched up one of the tests. “This one doesn’t have two lines, this one has a cross. Is a cross bad? Why is there a cross?”

He was suddenly fumbling in the bin for the packaging, trying to match it to the stupid brand of stupid pregnancy test in his hand.

“That one must be different,” Molly said.

_Oh, for f-_

“Why the hell would anyone do that?” he spluttered. “If there was ever something for which you shouldn’t try to be different, it would be this. People buying these things are generally in a heightened state of anxiety and have no interest in being charmed by quirky attempts to be  _different_.”

“Sherlock, it’s a plus sign,” Molly said, her hand smoothing across the top of his hunched shoulders. “It’s not a cross.”

He stopped rummaging in the bin and went from his knees into a crouch. Molly brought his hand to her knees and covered them with hers; she was looking at him with such reassuring confidence.

“So you’re…we’re-?” he ventured.

“Doing it all again,” she grinned. “Yes, looks like it.”

He nearly knocked Molly off the top of the toilet in his rush to embrace her. Then, remembering both her fragile state and her newly-confirmed ‘condition’, he quickly released her – only for Molly to virtually jump into his arms instead, her lovely legs wrapping around his thighs and her face buried into the crook of his neck. Her laughter tickled the sensitive skin there, and he could feel the dampness of her tears. Sherlock was certain that tears of his own were not too far off.

"I love you," he murmured against her ear. 

"God, I love you, too!" Molly replied in a gasp, her voice catching on a happy sob.

The bathroom was not the location most conducive to celebration, and Sherlock carried Molly through to the living room again, eventually settling them both in his chair. He felt a big huff of breath escape him, and his ability to breathe normally started to return. When it did, he kissed her - hard and fierce, and determined to show her how brilliant he thought she was. And something else swept over him, too; that familiar, welcome sense of responsibility. But mostly, this was just bloody fantastic!

“So when…when do you think?” he asked, when they came up for air.

“Um, assuming that it’s been about five weeks, then…I guess…early June?”

He took this information in.

“We should find out for sure,” Sherlock said. “John can get us an appointment tomorrow. John! John will want to know. We should go and tell him – and Hudders, too, of course, and I suppose I should probably tell my mother and father, providing we’re prepared for them turning up at our front door first thing in the morning and not leaving London for the next eight months.”

Molly giggled, but he wasn’t certain why.

“What?” he frowned.

“Well, do we need to do all that right now?” she said. “I just… it would be nice if it was maybe just us for now…for tonight at least. It’s a lot to take in, a lot to think about and…I just want to enjoy that with you.”

Sherlock was about to answer when they heard loud whimpering coming from upstairs, indicating very clearly that their first-born was back in the land of the living. They both glanced towards the stairwell, and Sherlock wondered whether, like him, Molly was thinking about how William’s life was going to change, too. For the better, he trusted – at least on balance. 

“Shall I get him?” Molly asked, pushing herself off his lap.

“I’ll go,” Sherlock replied, getting to his feet. “You need to go to bed.”

He brought his hands to rest on Molly's waist, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He couldn’t help, too, but briefly let his fingers ghost over the fabric of her sweater covering her stomach.

“Besides,” he added. “I need to practice taking care of all of you.”

000000000

Molly had seemed sceptical that she would sleep, but when Sherlock checked on her intermittently during the evening, she hadn’t stirred at any point. He and William shared some dinner, did some intense walking practice up and down the stairs and around the flat, had a brief disagreement about the necessity of washing William’s food-encrusted hair at bath-time, followed by a further disagreement about whether or not William was tired. Finally, when his son had gulped down a bottle of milk, Sherlock managed to settle him in his cot and fit in a couple of hours work before returning to Molly.

She didn’t wake when he was changing into his pyjamas, nor even when he lowered his weight onto the mattress beside her. It had been the same when Molly was pregnant with William - although of course at that stage they weren’t living together, just shuttling between each other’s beds while navigating their way through a new relationship in the most unusual of circumstances. This time, though, he would be there every step of the way. 

Sherlock shifted along the bed until he was able to fit his body around Molly’s, placing the gentlest of kisses on the shell of her ear. His mind was already racing, flying off at several hundred tangents in a way that Sherlock knew wasn’t helpful. He tried to suppress his innate fear that something terrible would happen to Molly, the baby or both (the circumstances of William's birth didn't help), along with the additional, illogical worry that some of the more troubling Holmes genes might come to the fore.

But the dominant emotion – the one that kept pushing all of the others to the periphery – was unbridled happiness. Happiness coupled with excitement and contentment. He had been feeling a lot of that lately, and while his instinct had always been to question it, interrogate it, try to pull it apart and find fault with it, now he felt it was time to try to peacefully co-exist with it.

Molly stirred in her sleep, reaching a hand behind her to rest on his thigh.

“What time is it?”

“Around eleven,” he murmured.

“Was William okay?”

“Mm. Fine. He was in charge.”

Molly laughed softly.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked, reaching up a hand to move some stray strands of hair from her forehead. “Can I get you anything? I put a glass of water on your bedside table.”

Molly mumbled her thanks.

“Feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” she replied. “Although, apparently, that’s a good thing. Least that’s what the midwife claimed last time.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said.

“Why are you sorry?” Molly asked, twisting around in the bed to face him, offering an amused smile.

He frowned.

“Because, well, you know…I…did this.”

She managed a short laugh.

“Well, yes, but I was fully complicit,” she replied, snuggling in closer so that she could place a kiss on his chin.

They lay there in silence for a few moments.

“Speaking of which…” Molly said, eventually.

“Mm?”

“I’ve been trying to work out when… _this_ …might have happened,” she continued. “I mean, I’ll get a better idea when I see the midwife, and we’ll probably never know for certain, but…the timing would more or less with fit the night Irene Adler was here.”

Sherlock took this information in, wishing he could better see Molly’s face in the half-light. He remembered that night in detail; how Molly had taken him to bed - claimed him anew - and countered the darkness, the fear, of that afternoon with love. If the new life rapidly forming inside Molly was indeed created that night, it somehow couldn’t be more fitting.

“It’ll be a good story to tell her,” Sherlock said. “Almost as good as telling William the ridiculous circumstances in which he was conceived.”

Molly laughed.

“Any story about their conception is going to traumatise them, however mundane," she said. “Just think how you’d feel if your mum and dad shared that story with you.”

Sherlock shuddered, feeling Molly’s small body shake with laughter in his arms.  

“My father would need very little invitation,” he replied. Really, it was amazing he had reached forty and not been subjected to a blow-by-blow account (so to speak).

“Wait,” Molly said, as her laughter abated. “Did you say ‘her’?”

“Hm?”

“You said ‘her’ just now,” she continued. “About the baby. You think we’re having a girl this time?”

Sherlock smiled to himself.

“Molly, may I remind you that my track-record on this subject is one-hundred per cent,” he said.

“In case you can’t see it, I’m rolling my eyes right now,” Molly told him.

“Noted,” Sherlock said. “You can save your astonishment at my abilities until next June.”

Molly sniggered.

“Sherlock, I am  _always_  astonished at your abilities,” she said. “And usually in a good way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally this fic lives up to its name! (took me long enough, I know!)
> 
> Just one more chapter to go now, plus epilogue :-)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash-forward approximately eight months...

Molly couldn't decide whether it was worse being heavily pregnant in December or May. Unable to see her feet past the ridiculously large bump that had been William, she had constantly worried about slipping on the slush and ice in December; but now London was experiencing an unseasonably warm May, and not even the floatiest of summer maternity dresses could do anything to prevent her from sweating like a carthorse. Like trying to cool a volcano with an ice cube, Molly took a few gulps from her bottle of water (though it needed to be sensibly consumed, given the limited capacity of her bladder these days).

The pregnancy had been normal, uneventful, and for that Molly did feel incredibly grateful, particularly because being pregnant while  _also_  looking after a toddler was a radically different experience. There was no time to be tired, and certainly very few opportunities for those precious afternoon naps she was able to steal the first time around. During the second trimester - once the so-called morning sickness had subsided but she wasn’t yet the size of a water buffalo - there had been moments when Molly was so busy she had  _forgotten_  she was even pregnant. The idea of ‘nesting time’ was laughable, and she was basically gambling on them, somewhere in the flat, still having everything they needed for a new baby.

William was now nearly eighteen months old, and a one-boy force of nature; he would tear around for hours, particularly if Rosie was around to pursue, refusing all suggestions of a nap until finally crashing out pretty much wherever he happened to be standing. However, after a twenty-minute ‘power nap’, he would be up again and looking around for where the next adventure might come from. His resemblance to Sherlock  _was_  adorable, but Molly was sure it would probably be  _more_  adorable if she wasn't so bloody knackered all the time.

Another difference between the pregnancies was the number of extra appointments she was obliged to attend. The doctors had assured her that while there was no reason to expect it to happen again, the abruption of the placenta that led to William’s emergency delivery meant that they weren't taking any chances. Since she hit the third trimester, she had seen the midwife almost on a weekly basis. While she was still working, this only meant a short walk through the cool hospital corridors during her lunch hour or after work, but now that she was on maternity leave again, it involved a lengthy bus or Tube journey – and it was a toss-up between which was worse in the warm weather.

Still, Molly wasn’t about to complain about the extra ultrasound scans the midwives insisted on – and neither was Sherlock. So far, he had attended every single one – on one occasion, she only found out afterwards that he’d left Lestrade and a handcuffed suspect waiting outside in the hospital car park. Sherlock was inordinately excited about the baby, but Molly knew that only she ever saw the full extent of this; the way he held her hand tightly and studied the screen intently during the scans, the attention that he lavished on the bump when they were curled up in bed, the extensive notes that he was keeping that he thought she didn’t know about. She wasn’t fooled in the slightest when he played it casual in front of his parents, rolling his eyes as though their own effusiveness was ridiculous and overblown.

But although she was asked every time she had a screen, Molly had opted to once again keep the baby’s sex a surprise. Sherlock was just going to have to wait until the day itself to see how his theory played out.

All that said, today was the first time that Sherlock hadn’t been able to attend an ultrasound appointment – which was ultimately why she was on a bus and not in a cab. He was paying one final visit to Sherrinford before the due date, and had left the flat before Molly had even woken up. His parents had offered to take care of William to allow her to attend the appointment, which was on top of the regular day’s childcare they had been doing since she returned to work. The rest of the week had been divided up between her and Sherlock, with Sherlock taking care of William on Tuesdays and Wednesdays (which his own casework apparently showed were the days of the week least likely to yield a juicy murder). As a result of his eschewing work on two full days, it did mean that cases could often run over into the weekend – the criminal classes, he pointed out, were not strict observers of the traditional British working week.

Molly took another sip of water and fanned herself with the free newspaper she had picked up on the bus – she would be home in forty minutes, if the traffic wasn’t too horrendous. It was such a relief not to be doing this commute quite so often, even if she had only been working three days a week. That said, it only seemed five minutes since she was sitting in Mike’s office on her first day back, apprehensively breaking the news to him that she was pregnant again.  His reaction – one of laughter – had taken Molly by complete surprise; apparently, his wife had predicted it would happen.

Things had actually worked out well in the end. One of the senior lab technicians was retiring at the same time as Molly was coming back, so she took on the bulk of his lab work as well as overseeing the pathology students – and her maternity cover was kept on in the morgue.

Being in the lab on a more permanent basis obviously meant that there was a small amount of crossover with Sherlock – which, during the second trimester in particular, had sparked memories of certain illicit supply-cupboard encounters during her first pregnancy. One afternoon, when the coast was clear, Molly had managed to drag Sherlock in there for a repeat performance – but it had ended abruptly when, in his haste to hoist her onto the worktop, he had sent a stack of steel equipment trays flying. He then had to remain in the cupboard for twenty minutes after Molly had left, so as not to arouse suspicion among the students and technicians. Needless to say, they had not attempted it again.

The bus was sitting in stationary traffic outside Holborn Tube when she felt it for the first time. Without warning, her whole stomach seemed to suddenly go rock hard, and a forceful twinge took hold of her, starting in her back and moving around to her belly. It wasn’t painful exactly, more like a gripping sensation, and it passed within seconds. Molly breathed out slowly. That couldn’t be a contraction?

The bus wheezed and slowly moved off again. Ten minutes passed, and Molly started to relax again – it was probably just the baby’s response to being repeatedly prodded by the midwife and the ultrasound paddle. Stretching itself out, making itself comfortable again (usually at the expense of her bladder or lungs).    

But they’d only crawled as far as the corner of Bloomsbury Street when she felt it again. Like a sudden cramp, twisting her insides and stealing her breath – no more severe than the first time, but equally startling.

Molly dug out her phone - thank God for bus wi-fi. Googling symptoms was never a good idea, but given the circumstances, i.e. stuck on a non-air conditioned, moving bus in the middle of London, it seemed justified. Flicking between the NHS website and various parenting forums, she realised that all wisdom seemed to be pointing in one direction.

Taking a breath, she started to compose a text.

**Might be having contractions. Only mild at the moment. Will update later – Mx**

She knew Sherlock wouldn’t be able to answer his phone on Sherrinford, and wasn’t even sure when he would receive the text. Immediately after sending it, Molly questioned whether she should have – it could all be a false alarm, particularly as there were still two weeks till the due date.

When the next one hit, it brought with it such a spasm of pain that it nearly lifted Molly off her seat. Once she had recovered, she took out her phone and flicked through to the stopwatch – she was going to have to time them. Of course, she was now acutely aware that her waters  _hadn’t_  broken, and while this should have been reassuring, it now seemed more and more likely that this delightful happening was going to take place on the west-bound W8 double-decker.

Still questioning her own sanity, Molly gingerly got off the bus near Tottenham Court Road and rang the maternity unit at Bart’s. While she was waiting for the receptionist to find an available midwife, another contraction took hold, and Molly had to brace herself against the bus shelter for support. She had just enough mental acuity remaining to check the stopwatch and relay this information to the midwife who had just come on the line.

  
“If they’re still only ten minutes apart and your waters haven’t broken…you’re sure they haven’t broken?”

Molly frowned at the phone in her hand.

“Um, wouldn’t I have noticed?”

“Not necessarily,” the midwife replied. “It can sometimes be more of a trickle than a gush.”

Molly screwed up her nose and tried to remind herself that she was medical professional. However, the fact that there was no trail of liquid on the bone-dry pavement between from the bus stop and where she was standing  suggested that everything was still intact.

“Like I was saying, my love,” the midwife continued. “If they’re ten minutes apart, we’d only end up sending you home until things start to really get going. You’re best off going home, having a nice bath and waiting until you’re closer to four minutes. Now, that could be very soon, but it could be hours or even into tomorrow.”

_Oh Jesus._ Molly was starting to think that she had got off lightly with an emergency C-section.

When she hung up, she checked to see if there had been a response from Sherlock, but there was nothing. She was going to have to ring him - but when she tried his number, it went straight to voicemail. With a mounting feeling of disquiet, she went to compose another text before abandoning it. No, it was too soon. But…what if it wasn’t.

**Sorry - trying to get hold of Sherlock, but not answering. Can you reach him? - MH**

She wasn’t sure why she always started her (infrequent) texts to Mycroft with an apology – perhaps because it always seemed to be a semi-emergency. Perhaps because Sherlock’s brother knew Molly only contacted him in serious situations, he could be relied upon for a quick response…but not this time, of course. Her fingers paused for a long moment before she dialed his number instead. Like Sherlock’s, it went straight to Mycroft’s voicemail.

She tried to clear her head, fix on a plan of action. Within the space of a few seconds, she had realised two things: the reason why she couldn’t get hold of Mycroft Holmes on a Friday afternoon, and the fact that she was standing a few feet from a taxi rank. Before she had time to query her thinking, she was carefully climbing into the back of a black cab.

“The Mall, please,” Molly said, hauling the seatbelt across herself. “The Diogenes Club.”

 

0000000

 

When the next contraction had arrived, she did everything she could to try to conceal it from the taxi driver – he had clearly already taken one look at the size of her and decided that he was at risk of having to deep-clean his cab. But Molly cared more about the fact that the latest contraction clocked in only eight minutes after the first.

It went without saying that she had never been to Mycroft’s ridiculous gentlemen’s club before, but as she approached the imposing white-pillared portico, she reminded herself that she didn’t have the luxury of feeling intimidated or hesitant.

On seeing her, the man on the desk looked as though he was about to reach for either an alarm or the lever for a trap door. Before she could even speak, he gestured firmly to the sign on the desk. Molly peered at it:  _Strictly no talking_. Oh, for God’s sake!

“I need to see Mycroft Holmes,” she said, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag.

The elderly man gestured again.

“Yes, I read that,” Molly continued. “I can read, contrary to what anyone in this ludicrous establishment might think about women. And yes, you’ve probably noticed that I’m fairly heavily pregnant, and it’s generally not a good idea to try the patience of a woman who is quite this heavily pregnant.”

The man looked alarmed that she was still speaking, his glance flitting around the lobby in case any of the other fossils and relics of bygone Britain were listening. Quickly, he jotted something down on the ledger in front of him and turned it around to face to Molly.

She shook her head.

“Would it make a difference if I told you that I might be about to give birth to his nephew or niece?”

Within a couple of minutes, Mycroft had been located, and entered the lobby still wiping his hands on a napkin, and bearing an expression of mild alarm. When he actually greeted her out loud, Molly was at least relieved that her brother-in-law wasn’t going to insist on playing charades with her to ascertain why she was there.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, guiding her over to a more discreet corner of the lobby.

His question was answered by the arrival of another contraction, which had Molly biting down on a curse – swearing in this place would feel a bit like swearing in church. She felt Mycroft lead her to a cushioned window seat, discomfit practically radiating from him like a distress beacon.

She checked her phone – six minutes. This was happening much faster than she’d ever expected.

“I need to speak to Sherlock,” she said, once she recovered the ability to speak. “He isn’t answering his phone, and if he isn’t here soon, I’m now fairly sure he’s going to miss the birth of his child.”

She saw Mycroft swallow hard, noticed the fine beading of sweat in his hairline. He was probably inwardly panicking that he was going be drafted in as a birthing partner – although given the speed things were happening, maybe that wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

“I’ll try to get hold of him now,” he said. “You just remain where you are, and…ah…try not to be too distressed.”

_What, like you?_  Molly thought, irritably.  

Mycroft returned a couple of minutes later, phone in hand.

“I was unable to get through to Sherlock directly, Molly,” he said. “But I spoke with the prison governor, who confirmed that the helicopter departed Sherrinford thirty minutes ago. We can try to contact him again once he's back on terra firma. Should we be getting you to a hospital?"

"Too soon," Molly said, shaking her head.

Mycroft responded with an incredulous look. Molly shot him one in return that she hoped said  _yeah, tell me about it._

"Ah. Well, I'm sure you would be more comfortable at Baker Street, surrounded by the comforts of home. I can arrange for my driver to take you there directly."

"It's fine," she replied, through gritted teeth. "Maybe if someone could just get me a cab..."

A taxi ‘miraculously’ appeared outside the building less than two minutes later, and Mycroft accompanied her to the kerb, one of the butlers from the club following behind with her bag.

"Is Dr Watson at home?" Mycroft asked, as he opened the cab door.

“No, he’s at the surgery today,” Molly said, only just spewing out the final syllable before -  _Jesus, here comes another one._

As she rode the crest of the pain-wave, she had grabbed onto the nearest thing to hand…which turned out to be Mycroft’s arm. When she relaxed her grip and dared to meet his gaze, he momentarily looked as though she was the school bully who had just made him cry. Molly muttered an apology and he quickly recovered himself.

“That’s, ah, quite all right,” he said, straightening out his sleeve. “Completely, ah, forgiveable in the circumstances.”

_Six minutes. At least things seemed to be stabilising._

“Mrs Hudson is at home, I think,” Molly replied, feeling for some reason as though she needed to make Mycroft feel better. “She wouldn’t miss a Holmes family childbirth drama for all the world.”

She had laughed awkwardly as she’d said it, and noticed that Mycroft hadn’t joined in. And seconds later, she wasn’t laughing either. Because as she climbed into the cab, Molly felt a strange popping sensation somewhere  in her lower regions…and then a gush.

“What…?” Mycroft queried, having clearly seen the look of shock registering on Molly’s face.

“Really sorry, but I, um, I need to get back inside,” she said in a hoarse whisper, feeling the trickle of warm liquid starting to pool in her shoes. “And you probably need to give the taxi driver fifty pounds.”

It took Mycroft a good five minutes to recover the power of speech, and even longer to be able to look her in the eye again. Between them, he and the butler had managed to help Molly back into the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club, where – thank God – normal speech was permitted. Although, Molly conceded, normal speech was slightly different to the noises that she was struggling to suppress; two of the waiting staff actually jumped backwards when the next contraction hit.

God, why was this happening? Why couldn’t one of her pregnancies result in a nice, standard birth in a well-equipped maternity unit, somewhere close to the due date? Instead, she was standing in her own bodily fluids in the middle of Britain’s last acceptable bastion of sexism, her husband strapped into a helicopter somewhere, with no means of making contact.

She tried to focus on the positives, mainly just to prevent herself turning into a sobbing mess. Although the circumstances were, frankly, shit, and the pain was almost overwhelming at times, she didn’t feel afraid – not like she had felt immediately prior to William’s birth. And more than that, in perhaps just a few hours she would be looking into the eyes of her second child.

Now, if Sherlock could just magically materialize, things would seem manageable. But instead…

“We’re not terribly well-equipped, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said, returning to the room, as Molly lowered herself gingerly into the (towel-covered) armchair. He was holding a bundle of clothing.

“I believe these are chefs whites,” he continued, laying them across the arm of the chair. “Although I did manage to lay my hands on this smoking jacket, which I believe is a spare – not that smoking is permissible at the Diogenes any longer, of course, but old habits do rather die hard.”

By this time, all other occupants of the Stranger’s Room had either fled or been politely ushered out of the door. Mycroft stepped outside while Molly slowly, awkwardly changed out of her wet things and into a large white t-shirt and the ridiculous burgundy, quilted smoking jacket. It wasn’t exactly an Earth Mother look. She was recovering from another contraction (five minutes) when her brother-in-law returned.

“Shouldn’t we be calling for an ambulance now?” he asked. “This all seems rather…urgent.”

Molly sighed.

“I know it might be hard to believe,” she replied. “But this wouldn’t be considered an emergency - they’re not going to send an ambulance for a woman in normal labour. When the contractions are four minutes apart, I can get another cab back to the hospital, and they should admit me then.”

“And when will that be?” Mycroft asked, carefully.

“Probably not long at this rate, don’t worry,” Molly said, no longer particularly caring how irritated she sounded.

“I’m not,” he said quickly and unconvincingly. “But this, ah, location doesn’t really seem ideally suited for the…process you’re currently, ah, experiencing.”

She was poised to answer him when her phone rang, and when she saw Sherlock’s name on the screen, she snatched it up.

 "Molly, are you okay? What's happening?"

For the first time that afternoon, Molly felt as though she might cry.

"I'm all right - at least I think I am," she said, the sound of Sherlock's voice an overwhelming relief. "But my waters have broken and the contractions are getting closer together, and I think it's going to be pretty quick. Wh-where are you?"

She barely dared to ask the question.

"Waiting for clearance to land at the heliport," Sherlock replied. "Where are you? Where should I come to?"

When Molly told him, he asked her to repeat it.

"No, you heard right," she confirmed, sighing. "I don't know why - it seemed a good idea at the time."

"Okay. Is my brother there?" he asked, and when she told him, he added, "Put him on. Molly, I love you, and I will be there as soon as humanly possible."

Molly handed the phone to Mycroft, just as she was overcome by another contraction; the pain – and coping with it – was starting to make her feel nauseous and faint. She tried to listen to Mycroft’s conversation.

“Yes, of course  _I’m_  fine!” he was asserting, although Molly noticed that he was avoiding all eye contact with her. “…apparently, an ambulance won’t come yet, although that seems absurd…of course I will…no, Sherlock, I am not a  _complete_  imbecile…yes, I will do that, and yes, I will call him...”

By this time, Molly had levered herself to her feet and was pacing the room, trying to regulate her breathing with deep, controlled breaths – it seemed to be the only way to keep the pain at a manageable level. Moments later, Mycroft loomed into view again.

“I have John on the line,” he said, holding out his phone. “Excuse me, Molly – I thought it might be useful if I ascertain whether there is a doctor in the house, so to speak.”

Molly nodded, feeling slightly relieved when he left the room – she cared for Mycroft a great deal, but at a time when all she really wanted to think about was the baby, she felt she was having to make allowances for a forty-eight-year old baby, too.

“John?”

“Molly, is Mycroft right? You’re in labour?”

“He said that?”

“Well, I don’t think he could bring himself to use the word ‘labour’, but that sounded like what he was trying to describe,” John said. “Waters have broken?”

“Yeah. And contractions are less than five minutes apart now,” Molly said, feeling another starting to build, deep in her core. “The whole thing started less than two hours ago.”

“Okay,” John said, as though stalling for some thinking time. “Okay. Mycroft said that Sherlock’s on his way, so that’s good. I’m going to come straight over there, too, but it’s going to take me half an hour or so – if things start to speed up, Molly, you’ll need to get over to Bart’s.”

“I know. Mycroft’s seeing if he can find a doctor,” she told him. “I mean, I assume a place like this must be full of Harley Street specialists.”

“Yeah, sure to be,” John replied. “Make sure Mycroft gets you everything you need, Molly – he’ll feel better if he can organise something. I’ll see you soon.”

No sooner had he rung off than Mycroft appeared again. He was accompanied by one of the waiting staff, who set down a tray with a jug of water, a pot of tea and a selection of triangular sandwiches and small cakes. Apparently, Mycroft thought they were going to have afternoon tea while they waited for his nephew or niece to enter the world.

“You’ll need sustenance,” he said, by way of explanation. “And the chef’s  _petits fours_  really are exquisite."

She thanked him. He was, Molly supposed, trying to play to his strengths.

“I’m afraid I didn’t have much luck seeking medical assistance,” he continued, perching cautiously on the edge of the chair set across from her. “We  _do_  have a retired naval surgeon, as well as a director of the British Veterinary Association.”

Good grief – she wasn’t that desperate yet. Although…

Molly winced, the heavy ache in her lower back now preventing her from sitting comfortably for more than a few moments at a time.

“Let’s see how long it takes for John to get here,” she said, picking up her phone and getting ready to start the stopwatch again.

As the contraction subsided, Molly was surprised to find Mycroft leading her back to the chair and trying to make her comfortable. His manner was stiff and he was certainly perspiring more than she’d ever seen before, but, credit to Sherlock’s brother, he was trying. Lady Smallwood, she had no doubt, was a good influence.

“You know,” he began, pouring Molly a glass of water. “There’s an old statute on the club’s books that states that any child born within the walls of the Diogenes Club will automatically receive lifetime membership.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

“Even if the child is a girl?” she challenged. She didn’t know why she was picking this fight at this moment, but anything to take her mind off the ridiculous situation.

“Ah. Well. The clause was added in jest by the club’s founders, because of course the, ah, gender makeup of the club’s membership means that it would be rather difficult for any child to be born here. Although I suppose they didn’t foresee…”

“Yup,” Molly said, darkly.

This was one situation where she had zero interest in breaking new ground for women.

When Molly fumbled to halt the stopwatch on the next contraction, she felt a spike of alarm course through her: four minutes and six seconds. Mycroft watched as she called the maternity unit again, inwardly praying that she wouldn’t be turned away again. When she described the scenario, the midwife – clearly fearing that Molly may not reach the hospital quick enough in a cab - informed her that an ambulance would be despatched. The flood of relief was immense – not least for Mycroft, who seemed to regain a little colour in his cheeks at the news.

The next contraction clocked in less than four minutes later.

“Mycroft,” Molly began. “I think maybe you should ask for some towels and hot water, and any blankets there might be.”

“Of course,” he replied. “But you don’t think-?”

“Just in case,” she explained, hearing how ragged her breathing was beginning to sound. “I don’t know how long the ambulance is going to take.”

A few minutes later, two waiters appeared with a trolley bearing a huge urn of boiling water, plus a stack of towels monogrammed with DG, and a blue and green Tartan blanket.

“Wait a minute,” Mycroft said, addressing the waiters. “Isn’t that Sir Hilton-Soames’ lap blanket?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the waiters confirmed, nervously. “He isn’t here today, and it was the only blanket we could find.”

Mycroft sighed, and sent them away with a wave.

“Sir Theodore Hilton-Soames,” Mycroft said, assuming that Molly was interested. “Is one hundred and two years old. He was private secretary to Churchill during the last years of the war - one of our most distinguished and venerable members. Regrettably, Molly, I’m a little uneasy about appropriating his possessions in this manner.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” Molly told him, grimly, taking the blanket from the trolley. He responded with a little nod that said  _of course_.

When the door opened behind them, Molly was suddenly struck by a rush of hope. She couldn’t help but feel anguish that it was John rather than Sherlock arriving, but when that initial moment passed, the anguish was replaced with relief. John had only just reached her side when another contraction took hold, and he crouched down beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder and squeezing tightly.

“How are you doing, Molls?” he said, rubbing her shoulder briskly.

Molly nodded, swallowing.

“Yeah, okay,” she replied, hoarsely. “That was three and a half minutes, though.”

John’s eyes widened.

“Jesus. You’re right – you might not have long,” he said, setting down his medical bag on the table. “Sherlock texted me on my way. He’s landed and he’s in a cab – I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s actually stolen it, just so he can get here quicker.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, she managed a tentative smile.

“There’s an ambulance on the way, too,” she said. “I just…I know it isn’t an emergency, so it could be diverted.”

“Don’t worry,” John said, throwing his stethoscope around his neck. “We’ll be fine. I’ll do whatever checks I can, but you seem like you’re in control here, Molly.”

"Anything further I can do?" Mycroft asked, hovering at a safe distance.

"Have someone watch for the ambulance," John replied, strapping the blood pressure monitor to Molly's arm. "Send someone over to Baker Street for Molly's bag. More towels, table cloths, cushions. And get ready to sedate your brother."

Another contraction broke while John was checking her over, but the look on his face was reassuring.

"Your heart-rate is fine, blood pressure is within expected levels. Baby doesn't seem to be in distress," he said, taking her hand. "The only thing not normal here is the bloody location, and we might just have to live with that. The smoking jacket suits you, by the way."

Molly gave a short laugh. She was just starting on another slow lap of the room when the grand oak door of the Stranger’s Room flew back on its hinges, and a whirlwind tore into the room. For once, Sherlock Holmes did  _not_  look immaculate and he did  _not_  look in control – but bloody hell, she was pleased to see him. He practically tripped on the carpet in his speed to get to Molly, skittering across to her and taking her into his arms. Mycroft followed in his wake, visibly relieved.

 "You're okay?” Sherlock murmured, his eyes still rapidly checking her.

Molly nodded, hands taking hold of his arms as Sherlock cradled her face, smoothing down her sweat-soaked hair.

“You’re here,” she said, managing a smile. “I was worried you might miss it."

  
Sherlock nodded, placing a kiss on her forehead.

“John, is everything all right?” Sherlock asked over his shoulder. “What can we do?”

John got to his feet, following them as Molly paced and Sherlock supported her.

“We wait, mate,” he replied. “And see whether the ambulance or your little one arrives first.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, nodding, as she shrugged out of his suit jacket. “Molly, can you rest?”

Molly shook her head, hunching over as the next contraction twisted and tore through her. She could almost feel Sherlock’s surprise and fear, but being able to let him support her weight, feeling the physicality of him, seemed to make the pain pass more quickly.

She saw John looking at his watch.

“Molly, I make that less than two minutes now,” he said, carefully. “You’re going to feel like you want to push soon, but we need to make sure that you’re ready.”

“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked.

“I need to do a cervical exam,” John replied. “Check how many centimetres’ dilated Molly is. If she’s close to ten centimetres, we could be ready to go.”

“Ohhhh no,” Molly said, before Sherlock could reply. “Please. The ambulance could be here any minute.”

“Molly-”

“John, I know you’re a doctor, but you’re also my friend, and I’d really prefer it if you stayed top-end during this whole thing,” she said. “I really don’t-”

“What if I do it?” Sherlock put in.

Both Molly and John firmly said ‘no’ at the very same moment, exchanging looks immediately after.  

“You’re staying top-end, too,” Molly told Sherlock. “This whole day has been traumatising enough.”

“I think I’ll just, ah, step outside,” she heard Mycroft say. God, she’d forgotten he was still there!

“Good idea,” John and Sherlock said in unison.

“But John can talk me through it,” Sherlock protested. “I know it’s not ideal, but someone needs to check you, and it looks as though someone may well need to deliver the baby, too – we can’t-”

“I think I’d rather one of the waiters did it,” Molly said, gritting her teeth.

“Don’t think it’s going to come to that,” John said, with a smile. “Here comes the cavalry.”

The door had opened again, and two paramedics – a man and a woman – hustled towards Molly with their kit bags. They greeted her and helped to manouevre her into a chair so they could examine her more carefully; they worked briskly and calmly, and Molly could see the look of relief on Sherlock’s face behind them as he allowed them to work.

“It’s not going to be a good idea to move you,” the woman said, getting back to her feet. “You’re ten centimetres dilated already, and you could end up having the baby in the back of the ambulance in rush-hour traffic. Labour seems to be progressing well, and if we can make you comfortable here, it would be a much better option for delivery.”

Molly nodded, trying to digest this information. She looked to Sherlock to see the colour drain from his face in front of her eyes.

“You’re Dad?” the other paramedic asked.

John nudged Sherlock sharply.

“Y-yes,” he responded, still sounding dazed and holding out his hand. “S-Sherlock Holmes.”

At this, a strange look passed over the paramedic’s face. He glanced at Molly, frowning.

“Oh, that’s right!” he said suddenly. “I thought I recognised you. You were outside Bart’s that time, with an older lady. And that makes you the bloke who jumped off the roof!”

Molly’s brain eventually caught up with her.

“Antonio?” she asked weakly.

“Yeah, well remembered!” the man grinned, as though delighted by this unexpected reunion.

Of all of the hundreds of ambulance staff throughout London, why did it have to be the only one she’d ever before had a conversation with? She wondered whether it was realistic to ask  _him_  to stay top-end, too. Molly was wondering if she could explain all this to Sherlock and John when another contraction began – the first in about four minutes, but stronger and longer-lasting. And John was right – suddenly, she felt the urge to push.

“Dad, you’d better get yourself up here,” Antonio said, as he wedged more cushions and towels in around Molly. “And can everyone else please clear out?”

Molly saw John clasp Sherlock’s shoulder briefly, and offer her a supportive nod before quickly herding a random waiter back out into the lobby. Sherlock stumbled over to where Molly was braced in the chair, squeezing in beside her as best she could, and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“Sherlock,” she breathed. “However long this takes, can we please agree that you’ll delete anything…uncomplimentary that I might say during this whole thing?”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the hand that he held in his.

“Molly, I’m so extraordinarily proud of you,” he replied. “And I can guarantee that whatever names you may call me, I have been called worse.”

 

000000000

 

Molly pulled back the fold of the blanket to reveal more of the tiny, beautiful, pink face and the wrinkled little hand that jutted up beside it. Around them, the paramedics were still clearing things away and packing up their equipment. The whole delivery had been so quick that her bag of clothes for herself and the baby hadn’t yet arrived from Baker Street, and they were having to improvise.

“You still look surprised,” Molly said, smiling at Sherlock.

“I…a bit,” he replied, sweeping a long finger down the baby’s soft cheek. “But he is incredible.”

“Yes, he is,” she grinned, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes.

When the paramedic announced that it was a boy, Sherlock had actually done a visible double-take, craning to get view of their child in a manner suggesting he didn’t believe the woman. He still looked incredulous as he was being guided in the cutting of the cord.

But there he was. Dark eyes, hazel-brown hair and undoubtedly another Holmes boy – although not quite the immediate image of Sherlock that William had been at birth.

In a few minutes, the ambulance would take them to Bart’s, where their second son would eventually be introduced to waiting friends and family – including his brother, who Molly was increasingly anxious to see. But there was an odd peace in the Stranger’s Room now, as the baby slept, and the paramedics quietly worked around them.

“So, we’re naming him after your father?” Sherlock said.

Sherlock had, of course, been focused on girls’ names for the past eight months, but Edward had been chosen as the just-in-case name for a boy. Molly smiled, watching their little boy frown in his sleep, a tiny, fragile package wrapped up in a huge Tartan blanket.

“I…I think I want to change it slightly, if that’s okay?” she asked. “I got the idea from your brother.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in apparent horror.

“Please tell me we’re not calling him Mycroft?”

Molly giggled.

“No. But he mentioned that this blanket belongs to a man called Theodore and…well, my mum used to call my dad Teddy, so…it just sort of seems to fit. And I think it kind of works with the other names in your family, too.”

Sherlock smirked.

“You mean it’s posh?” he said, arching his eyebrow at her.

“It’s distinguished,” Molly clarified, grinning. “And anyway, we’ll probably only call him Theodore when he’s in trouble.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“That’ll come soon enough,” he said.

“’Scuse me, folks,” Antonio cut in. “We’re about ready to go here. Magda’s just bringing the wheelchair from the ambulance.”

Molly nodded, settling her weight – and that of the baby’s – back against Sherlock’s chest.

“So,” he said quietly, stroking the pad of his finger over his son’s downy hair. “Theodore Gregory Victor Holmes.”

“Mm-hm. Teddy,” she confirmed. “Now officially the youngest ever member of the Diogenes Club.”

Sherlock laughed.

“Not sure he’ll be able to adhere to the strict code of silence,” he said. “But it’s nice that you’ve got him a smoking jacket already, Molly.”

Molly shook her head.

“ _I’m_  keeping this,” she smiled, fingering the silk lapel of the garment she was still wearing. “I bloody earned it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, murmuring into her hair. “You really did.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a BEAST of a chapter - thanks to everyone who made it to the end!
> 
> That's pretty much it, but epilogue coming up before Christmas :-)


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has been following this story (either from the very beginning or just this part of the series) - it has been a lot of fun to write, and you've really spoiled me with your lovely comments. Particular thanks to @geekmama for her feedback and encouragement.
> 
> So here's the epilogue...

“John?...John Watson?”

He finally heard the voice above his own thoughts, and looked up from his purchasing dilemma to see exactly the person he  _thought_  the voice belonged to – but didn’t somehow believe it.

“Sarah?”

“Hi!”

“Hi,” John repeated dumbly, his brain still attempting to process this most unlikely of meetings. “Wow, hi! I, er…god, I didn’t expect…it’s been, well it’s been-”

“A long time, I know,” she nodded. She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Same hair, same open, genuine smile that seemed to transform her whole appearance. Not that he had seen much of that smile in the final few days before he saw her last.

“It’s good to see you,” he heard himself saying. It probably sounded like a platitude, but actually…it did feel sort of good for some reason. “I, er, I thought you moved to Australia? Possibly to get as far away from me as possible.”

She gave a short laugh, stepping aside to let another shopper move past her.

“I did,” she replied, she smiled. “Move to Australia, I mean. Though you’re giving yourself a little too much credit, Dr Watson – it was a good opportunity.”

“Was?” John queried, frowning.

“Yeah,” she said, her smile fading slightly. “I moved back a couple of months ago. Just trying to get used to London life again.”

He was about to reply when Sarah got in ahead of him.

“So anyway, what about you?” she asked, briefly touching his coat sleeve. He saw her gaze flick downwards momentarily, before returning to his face. “You’re apparently buying lots of sparkly tights.”

John glanced down, too, having more or less forgotten that he was standing in the children’s department of M&S, as well as the four packs of girls’ tights that he’d been agonizing over before this unlikely meeting happened.

“Actually, just the one pair,” he replied, with a short laugh. “Or trying to. Not really my area of expertise.”

He could see on Sarah’s face that she wanted to ask, but was possibly afraid of getting wrong.

“I have a daughter,” John said. “Rosie.”

Immediately, Sarah’s expression broke into another huge smile.

“Oh, John, that’s so lovely!” she smiled. “Wow. That’s really great…I’m so happy for you.”

He nodded, smiling, holding up the tights for some reason that he didn’t completely understand. As he was doing so, he suspected – with a heavy sensation in his stomach – that he knew where the conversation was going next.

“So, um, so you’re married now?” she asked, tentatively.

Her uncertainty was understandable – although, if they’d been having this conversation just two weeks ago, perhaps she wouldn’t have felt the need to ask. A fortnight ago, following his therapy session, he had sat on the edge of the bed in the semi darkness and taken off his wedding ring – placed it in the bedside drawer, and gently closed it. And for the first time, he hadn’t been overcome by an attack of guilt the following day and restored the ring to his hand. The time had come where it was something he needed to try.

But, of course, it meant conversations like these.

“I was,” he nodded, feeling just how tight his smile was. “But I, er…I’m actually widowed.”

Immediately, he saw Sarah’s hand drift towards her mouth; saw how she tried to adjust her expression to hide her initial shock.

“Mary…my wife…she died a little while back,” he continued. “Actually, not such a little while anymore but, well, you know.”

“God, John, I am so sorry,” Sarah replied. “I’m… I hope you know I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“No, no, you weren’t,” John replied, feeling a genuine need to reassure her. “How could you know? It’s just…it is what it is.”

He noticed that his hand had drifted to Sarah’s forearm in his effort to assure her that he wasn’t upset or offended. Slowly, he withdrew it, but it made him feel…it made him feel  _something_.

“Anyway, how about you, Dr Sawyer?” he said, trying for a breezy tone. “Is there a Mr Sawyer now?”

He saw her face contort slightly before settling to a more diffident smile.

“We weren’t married, but yes, for a while,” she said. “It didn’t work out. He’s back in Brisbane, no plans to move over here. We, ah… _I_  have a little boy – Jake. He’s five.”

Sarah held up the purchase in her hand – a pack of little boy’s  _Star Wars_  pants – and smiled, giving a slight roll of the eyes at the synchronicity of their shopping purposes. It was difficult for any tension to remain between two adults involved in the mundane – but somehow still ridiculous - process of buying children’s underwear.

“So, are you still working with Sherlock?” Sarah asked, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “I…of course I heard about all the stuff about faking his own death, or whatever it was that he did. I thought about you…a lot, actually.”

Although the days, weeks and months in the immediate aftermath of Sherlock’s supposed death had been a haze of unreality, during which time he was only barely functioning as an adult human, John  _could_  remember getting an email from Sarah. He’d never answered, of course; it went the same way as all of the other well-intended messages of condolence.

“Yeah, still working with him,” he replied. “Though also still doing shifts at the clinic because Sherlock still doesn’t pay me properly. Although these days I can’t really complain as much, seeing as he does have several mouths to feed.”

John watched as Sarah’s expression went from attentively listening to puzzlement, and from puzzlement to  _must-have-misunderstood-that_  confusion.

“What? You don’t mean…he’s  _married_?”

John smiled mildly.

“Married with kids, yes.”

“Sherlock Holmes has a wife? And kids? Plural?” Sarah said, both eyebrows raised. “ _The_  Sherlock Holmes? The same Sherlock Holmes who used to think nothing of crashing our dates all of those years ago?”

She eyed him suspiciously.

“Are you taking the piss, John Watson?”

He laughed.

“If I was going to make up some kind of fiction about Sherlock, believe me, I would go for something that sounded a bit plausible,” he told her. “But it’s absolutely true. He and Molly are the real deal, and I’m a very proud godfather.”

At this, Sarah could only shake her head, corners of her mouth downturned in disbelief.

“I  _have_  been away a long time,” she said with a snort of laughter. “Bloody hell. I’d always assumed Sherlock was…well, I don’t think I thought he was  _anything_. He just didn’t seem…interested.”

John laughed.

“He wasn’t,” he said. “Well, for a long time he  _thought_  he wasn’t. But then, Molly is a pretty extraordinary person herself.”

“I can imagine she’s got to be,” Sarah said, with an intake of breath. “Wow. Sherlock Holmes with a wife and children – now that I would like to see.”

A thought ignited in John’s mind at that moment, and when he didn’t immediately dismiss it offhand, he took a breath and articulated it before he could change his mind.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come to a first birthday party tomorrow afternoon, would you?” he asked, hoping that it sounded casual enough. “Jake, too, of course. I’m sure Rosie would love to meet him, and you’d both be welcome.”

The pause that followed was a little longer than he liked. He figured Sarah was being cautious, which made sense; after all, they hadn’t seen each other for nearly seven years, and this was just a chance meeting – and now suddenly, he was throwing out invitations to random social events.

“Forget it, it’s probably a stupid idea,” he said quickly. “Sorry I asked. It’s not what you expect when you’re out shopping for kids’ pants.”

But then a smile spread across her face again, a smile that, despite himself, stirred something within John that had lain dormant to the point that it sparked both fear and exhilaration.

“Go on then,” Sarah replied.

John’s brow furrowed.

“Really?”

She nodded, grinning.

“I would love to come,” she confirmed. “I mean, I’m assuming that a first birthday party is going to be slightly less hazardous than some of those dates you took me on?”

He laughed, noting that the rush of exhilaration still hadn’t completed subsided, but not wanting to examine too closely what that might mean.

“You have my word,” he told her. “But I do need to ask a small favour in return...”

“What?” she queried, with a suspicious twinkle in her eye.

“I’m having complete analysis paralysis here,” he told her, holding up the packs of tights in his hands. “So for the love of God, please help me pick one so I can get on with my life.”

Sarah laughed, and while they were talking about Rosie, about the dress she’d be wearing and about what to bring to Teddy Holmes’ birthday party, John felt almost as though he was somehow looking down on himself. The man he saw sounded confident, comfortable and unafraid of what was happening – and, tellingly, that man was  _flirting_. And for once, John Watson didn’t have a problem with it.

0000000

The next day, he found himself in a cab with Rosie, travelling a few miles to collect Sarah and her son from her parents’ house, where they were temporarily living. The tights had been a hit with Rosie, and John wanted to be sure he remembered to thank Sarah. He had spent altogether too long that morning, before Rosie woke up, trying to decide what he himself should wear – and he knew, though tried not to think too closely about it, that it was  _not_  for the benefit of the one-year-old birthday boy, or even his snarky git of a father.

There had been one crisis moment the previous evening when he came close to calling the whole thing off. He had spoken to Molly on the phone an hour or so before, to make doubly sure that it was okay to bring additional guests, and she had assured him it was fine – in fact, she was enthusiastic in her encouragement. That had taken the weight off a little bit;  even though he had tried to make it clear that Sarah wasn’t coming as a plus-one (and who brought a plus-one to a baby’s birthday party anyway?), he was acutely aware that Molly had been Mary’s closest friend at the end.

John was in no doubt that the second Molly hung up the phone to him, she would have hurried off to share the news with Sherlock – and that was where John’s residual anxiety lay. Just because Molly seemed pleased that he was him bringing a female friend to their home, didn’t mean that her husband would respond the same way. Sherlock, he knew, wanted him to be happy – but saying the words was one thing, and being faced with a real, human being in front of you was completely different. And not just anyone – someone from John’s past. Would it seem to Sherlock as though he was erasing Mary from memory? Casually picking up where he left off?

In the middle of this crisis, John had panicked that he shouldn’t be introducing Rosie to Sarah, in case his little girl got the wrong idea. It would be the first time he’d taken that step, and if he was honest with himself, for a long time the scenario seemed so unlikely that he hadn’t given it much thought. He hadn’t been a complete monk over the past couple of years; there had been a handful of women, but everything had been short-term (usually his decision), and he hadn’t even come close to thinking about how they might become a fixture in Rosie’s life.

Not that he was thinking about Sarah in those terms either.

That was what was nice about this, he had decided – Rosie could meet Sarah (and likewise, he would meet her son, he supposed), but there wouldn’t be anything riding on it. It would be a chance for Rosie to see that men and women could be friends.

They collected Sarah and her little boy without drama. John managed not to stare too much, and his planned “you look really nice” seemed to strike the right tone. Jake, Sarah’s son, with his sandy hair and freckles, was understandably shy, but within minutes he and Rosie were playfully nudging each other’s feet across the taxi.

“We’re not going to Baker Street?” Sarah asked, frowning, as the taxi started to make its way further west.

Of course – he had overlooked this key detail from his whistle-stop explanation of everything that had happened over the past seven years.

“Yeah, sorry,” John replied. “Rosie and I are still at Baker Street, but Sherlock and Molly have kind of outgrown 221B. This party is doubling as a belated house-warming, too.”

In actual fact, Sherlock and Molly had moved out of Baker Street four months ago, finally accepting that the first floor flat, with its small number of bedrooms and miniscule garden, were not working particularly well for a growing family. Sherlock was still there most days, though, as 221B now operated as his place of work – and it was slowly becoming the clutter of papers, half-completed experiments and crime scene ephemera that John remembered from the old days.

It was only a short ride to the Georgian townhouse that the Holmes family now called home. Situated on a small green square, the house somehow managed to be both impressive and unassuming – although John knew it must have cost a packet. Molly had finally sold her house, which she had been renting out since she moved in with Sherlock, and Sherlock’s posh credentials finally came into their own – apparently, Mycroft had been keeping his little brother’s earnings and savings in trust for many years (presumably when Sherlock’s drug habit would have threatened his solvency), and it was finally time to cash out.

The front door was opened by Sherlock, in his shirt sleeves and carrying the birthday boy. Teddy Holmes had the same messy curls as his brother, but he had inherited the deep, brown Hooper eyes. He wore a strangely familiar pair of blue knickerbocker dungarees, bowtie and frilly socks, and on top of his curls was perched a cardboard party hat.

Before John could do the introductions, Rosie broke free and tugged on Sherlock’s trousers until he had no choice but to crouch down with Teddy in his arms; she was after her customary hug. Sherlock obliged Rosie as always, gently releasing Rosie’s hair when a delighted Teddy took advantage of her proximity to grab a fistful.

“Uncle Sherlock, where’s Aunty Molly?” Rosie enquired.

“She’s upstairs, but I’ sure she’ll be down soon,” Sherlock replied, straightening Teddy’s hat. “Plenty of people out in the garden, though. Too many people, if you ask me.”

“Hamish?” Rosie asked, with hopeful glee.

“Yup,” Sherlock replied, exchanging a subtle, amused glance with John. “Him, too.”

Immediately, Rosie took off, but before John could say anything, she came clattering back to the hallway, grabbed Sarah’s son by the hand and dragged him with her in the direction of the garden.  _Her mother’s daughter_ , John smiled. 

“That was, er, that was Jake,” John said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the back of the house. “And Sherlock, this is-”

“Sarah, I know,” Sherlock replied, with a smile.

“John said you wouldn’t remember,” Sarah said, returning the smile.

“The Black Lotus Tong gang,” Sherlock continued. “Or the case of The Blind Banker, as I believe John referred to it in his delightful online record of our investigations. You were along for the ride.”

Sarah snorted.

“Yeah, that’s one way of looking at it,” she said with a short laugh. “One of my more memorable dates, that’s for sure.”

“Not boring though, hm?” Sherlock replied with a pursed smile.

Sarah folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes, but John could tell that it was all amicable. The three adults and Teddy headed through the hallway to the kitchen, which in turn opened out onto a modest and still slightly overgrown back garden. But before they could reach it, a colourful blur appeared out of nowhere and raced towards them at full tilt; John just had time to brace himself before Will Holmes hurled himself at his legs.

John quickly reached down, took hold of his godson – now nearly two-and-a-half - by the waist, picked him up and turned him upside down. Familiar with this routine, Will was already cackling with laughter by the time his curls were dangling towards the floor. Amazed by the sight of his big brother hanging upside down, Teddy joined in the laughter, lurching out from Sherlock’s arms to try to grab Will’s feet.

“Definitely caught a big one this time,” John said, going through the script that William found so entertaining. “We can all live off this one for a week. Let’s get him on the barbecue, eh?”

“Nooooo!” William screeched through a peal of laughter, before John deposited him safely in the armchair. The toddler then scrabbled his way off the seat and went tearing off into the garden again, which seems to coincide with the sounds of excitable barks.

“You have a dog as well?” Sarah asked, eyebrows raised in clear disbelief.

John sighed.

“Yes.  _That’s_  Hamish,” he explained. “Two sons, and Sherlock saved my name suggestion for the family pet.”

Sherlock smirked.

“As I’ve explained to John, Sarah, he  _should_  be taking it as compliment,” he said. “English Springer Spaniels are a very fine breed with an excellent nose.”

“Yeah? Well, my nose is good enough to smell your bullshit a mile away,” John retorted, before both he and Sherlock dissolved into laughter.

The dog was a very recent addition to the family, and was about as excitable as Sherlock and Molly’s sons. As John understood it, Sherlock’s first choice had been a bloodhound or beagle, but William had fallen in love with the brown and white spaniel, and it became a  _fait accompli_. John had no idea why Molly had agreed to any of this, and could only assume that she felt life couldn’t get any  _more_  chaotic by throwing a puppy into the mix, too.

At that moment, the door from the hallway opened and John turned to see Molly coming into the room, with a tightly-wrapped and slightly wriggly bundle.

“Oh, my gosh!” Sarah exclaimed softly to John. “You didn’t tell me they had  _three_  children!”

John grinned, as he watched Sherlock carry Teddy over to greet Molly.

“Didn’t I?” John replied, airily. “Must have slipped my mind.”

Sarah nudged him playfully in the side.

Beatrice Mary Martha ‘Bea’ Holmes had made her entrance in the world less than eleven months after Teddy, her conception being the only one that neither Sherlock  _nor_  Molly had planned. John could still remember the week that Molly discovered she was pregnant again – stress levels in 221B hit a record high, with his friends still adjusting to life with a toddler and a three-month old when the bombshell hit. But after a couple of weeks of heightened tension, Molly and Sherlock exhaustedly snapping at each other, and John and Mrs Hudson regularly being required to mediate, things did settle down. Denial became acceptance, and acceptance eventually gave way to excitement and anticipation.

To everyone’s relief, Sherlock and Molly’s daughter arrived dead-on her due date, following a very standard labour in the maternity ward at Bart’s. But of course, her arrival was the catalyst for the move from 221B  - something that Sherlock and Molly had been talking about in vague terms at some unknown point in the future suddenly became an urgent requirement.

If Bea Holmes had any idea of the uproar she had caused to her parents, she gave no sign. Of course, no baby girl could bear comparison to Rosie, but John had to admit that – with her delicate features and slightly upturned nose (definitely Molly’s) – his goddaughter was a beauty. And her father clearly thought so too; Sherlock appeared to be besotted with and endlessly fascinated by his little girl, and as they stood there in the kitchen, he placed a kiss in Bea’s tufty brown hair before dipping to kiss Molly.

John could almost feel Sarah’s reaction to the sight of Sherlock Holmes expressing romantic affection. He duly introduced Molly and Bea to Sarah.

“And Molly, this is John’s friend Sarah,” Sherlock said, shooting John a raised eyebrow that he knew neither woman would see.

“Thanks for coming,” Molly said, adjusting her hold on Bea so that she could extend a hand. “Sorry for the total chaos. This is actually us on a good day.”

Sarah smiled in return.

“Thanks for having us,” Sarah replied. “This is such a lovely house – and congratulations, too. I had no idea!”

“Well, she is sort of the surprise package of the family,” Molly said, gently rubbing her daughter’s back and exchanging glances with Sherlock.

“I’m starting to wonder how you two ever actually work any cases these days,” Sarah smiled, giving John a sideways look.

John rolled his eyes; she didn’t know the half of it. She had no idea how many hours he and Sherlock had spent in museums and parks over the past two months, in an attempt to give Molly some rest and to leave her alone with Bea.

“You remember how we used to bicker, insult each other and solve crimes?” he said to Sarah. “Well, now we bicker, insult each other and run a crèche. We occasionally solve crimes, too, if we’re not too knackered.”

Before she could respond, they were interrupted by Greg, leaning around the door that led to the garden.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, with an apologetic smile. “But we’ve got three little ‘uns tryin’ to climb the tree out here.”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

“Yeeees, and there are six adults out there with them,” he said.

“Yeah, but Will tells me he’s allowed to, so I thought I’d better check,” the detective explained. “’E’s not trying to con me, is he?”

Molly rolled her eyes, smiling.

“I’ll come out,” she offered. She and Sherlock did a quick switch of their offspring, leaving Sherlock with his daughter and Molly with the birthday boy, who clearly sensed there was action to be found in the garden.

“I’ll come, too,” Sarah added. “I suspect my son is one of the tree-climbers. Sorry.”

“Yeah, come and meet everyone,” Molly smiled, setting a wobbly Teddy down on the floor to hold her hand. “That was Greg just now, and Sherlock’s mum and dad are here, plus his brother and sister-in-law. And did you ever meet Mrs Hudson?”

As they disappeared out into the garden, John went to pour a glass of Prosecco for himself and for Sarah. Sherlock sat down at the kitchen island, carefully cradling Bea against his chest, and smiling down at her with a pride with which John was only too familiar.

“So,” Sherlock said, snagging a ginger biscuit from the plate on the counter. “ _Sarah_ …”

John tried to arrange his facial features into a neutral expression.

“Yes, Sarah,” he replied crisply. “What about her?”

“Are you…pleased to see her again?”

John took a sip of his drink and set down his glass. He couldn’t yet gauge where Sherlock stood on the issue.

“Yes,” he replied. “I always liked her; she’s good company, easy to talk to.”

“So’s Lestrade,” Sherlock retorted. “Not really the same thing, though, is it?”

John snorted, shaking his head in resignation.

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what it means, okay?” he said. “We only met up again yesterday, and…I don’t know…I just ended up inviting her. I haven’t really thought beyond this afternoon.”

“Really?” said Sherlock, dusting biscuit crumbs off his daughter’s shoulder. “Maybe you should.”

John had opened his mouth, expecting to defend himself, but once again Sherlock had wrong-footed him. It was definitely something to think about, assuming that he didn’t make a complete tit of himself in front of Sarah that afternoon.

“What about you two?” John asked eventually, sliding onto the stool beside Sherlock. “Please tell me that you  _are_  using proper protection now.”

Sherlock snorted.

“John, we have three children under the age of three years, two of whom enjoy taking it in turns to wake us up at regular, unpredictable intervals during the night, and the other of whom likes to start the day before six am. When exactly do you imagine we have the time or opportunity for sex?”

“Yeah, but that’s what you thought when Teddy was born,” John grinned, reaching over to allow Bea to grasp his finger. “And then, whoops, along came this little one.”

“Yes, well, my father was apparently right,” Sherlock said, sitting Bea down on his knee to face John. “Breast-feeding is extremely unreliable as a birth control method. But it’s not as though we had a lot of time to think it through.”

Bea Holmes, Sherlock had admitted, was conceived in a guest bedroom between the starter and main course at a dinner for Timothy Holmes’ seventy-fifth birthday.

“Anyway,” Sherlock went on. “Molly is sending me for what I believe is known colloquially as ‘the snip’. Before too long, Toby and I will be kindred spirits.”

John laughed. Molly’s long-suffering cat (and Sherlock’s long-term tormentor) was now far too old and slow to be interested in that sort of thing. He spent most of his days plodding from one patch of sunlight to another, and doing his best to make himself invisible to both the Holmes children and the dog.

 “Probably for the best,” John grinned. “I expect Mike would like to have Molly back at work at some point before he retires.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded, reaching across the table to a bowl of Kettle Chips. “I think I probably owe him about four years’ worth of free lab work.”

Molly appeared in the kitchen again, apparently looking for something.

“Candles?” she said, eyes scanning the work surfaces. “They were here a few minutes ago.”

“Molly, there are five children in the house,” Sherlock replied. “And while we can probably exclude Beatrice at this point, any of the others are likely culprits.”

After a brief and successful search, Molly drifted over to Sherlock’s side, candles in hand. From his position on the kitchen stool, he wrapped his arm around her waist and tilted his face upwards towards hers to seek a kiss. At the same time, Sherlock’s other hand kept his tiny little girl anchored safely in place; both of the Holmes women in his arms.

“Come on,” Molly said, unwinding herself from Sherlock’s arm and taking his hand in hers. “No hiding in the kitchen from your mum and dad - it’s cake time.”

Sherlock obediently stood up and, still holding his wife’s hand, started to follow her towards the garden. Molly quickly glanced over her shoulder.

“You coming, John?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat. “I’ll just get another drink and follow you out.”

Alone in the house for a moment, John looked around him, taking in the happy clutter of Sherlock and Molly’s family home. Outside, he could hear the indistinct back-and-forth of conversation; voices ranging from a completely-dependent five-week old baby to a fiercely independent eighty-three-year old woman.

He realised that his left thumb was working the base of his finger where his wedding ring was now absent; that habit was not yet broken. If he looked over his right shoulder, he knew he would see a small, subltly-placed photograph on the kitchen dresser of Molly with Mary, taken on the day of Rosie’s christening.

Outside, he caught a glimpse of Sarah talking to Molly before being led across the garden by Rosie, urging her to come and meet Hamish. There was a tightness in John’s chest for a moment, and he felt his heartrate build – but for once, guilt, and the remnants of grief, were not the cause. There was a lightness, a stirring, a germ of a possibility. Maybe it would be something, maybe it would be nothing, but he immediately knew he wanted to give it a chance and not just snuff it out straight away.

Of course, there was a lot to catch up on – more than could be conveyed in the course of one afternoon - but if Sarah wanted to hear it, he would tell her the whole story.

After all, it was a hell of a good one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! Made it to the end before Christmas, with mere days to spare!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. This feels like the end for this series, but there could be scope for some one-shot sequels or some 'lost scenes' - always keen to hear ideas! :-)


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